Everything I Care About
by EvenAtMyDarkest
Summary: Over the years he spends trying to make a living and recover his brother, money becomes more and more important to Stanley Pines. He tries to sort through his priorities, but nothing ever seems to turn out the way he imagined it. Character study. Three-shot.
1. Climb

_"You're gonna hear some bad things about me, and some of them are true. But trust me, everything I've worked for—everything I care about—it's all for this family."_

* * *

His limbs are leaden, but the clock reads only 3:17 PM. His stomach, which has been growling all day, has settled down for the time being. He knows he ought to go out and get some food and supplies soon anyway.

 _'Cause that's something I can actually do now_ , he thinks as he stares at the grimy old box filled with tens and fives sitting on the coffee table in front of him. No one seemed to notice or care that he just grabbed the first container he found to hold their entrance fees. He was honestly shocked at how easily they handed over their money, but since they've left, all he's been able to do is stare at the box, numb, nearly uncomprehending. Some kind of positive sensation, maybe something similar to accomplishment, has settled inside of him, and he finds that terrifying.

Ninety dollars. Somehow, in less than two hours and with little effort exerted on his own part, ninety bucks have fallen into his lap. In the last couple months he's been trying out the idea of praying, and… well, after this he might even start going to church.

How much food could he buy with ninety dollars? Definitely enough to last him several weeks at least, if he's smart about how he spends it. But… is there anything else he should be spending on? Clothes, probably—all he has of his own is a couple of old T-shirts, one pair of jeans, and a coat with a gigantic hole burned through the back.

Well… assuming Stanford is about his size still, he could always borrow some of his clothes…

Stan leans back in the recliner to stare at the wooden ceiling. Maybe he'll just get a new coat, the cheapest one he can find—no. Ninety dollars, he knows, isn't as much as it sounds. Food needs to be his priority. His old coat isn't exactly in the best shape, but with the old yellow patch he sloppily sewed onto it— _maybe some kind of medicine for that burn wouldn't be a bad idea either_ —it's serviceable. Unless he finds some reliable source of revenue, everything he buys needs to be necessary to getting the portal up and running again. And him not starving to death is kind of a prerequisite for that.

Where the heck is he even supposed to go to find a source of revenue? He's got no credentials or special skills that any professional establishment would want to know about, and exactly ninety bucks to his name. Any paperwork he'd have to turn in would be entirely filled with fake information, and even if that _weren't_ the case, it's impossible to find well-paying jobs nowadays, particularly ones that will give him enough to live off of while also leaving enough time in the day to sleep and devote several hours to endless frustration in the basement with little hope of success.

He's already spent too much time just staring at the cash, really. He needs to get something to eat, even if it's just enough to make sure he doesn't pass out.

* * *

When Stan returns to the Dusk 2 Dawn, the two owners are telling their current patrons about the "mysterious science guy from the woods." So naturally, they point him out as soon as he walks in, and he heads back to his brother's house with a loaf of bread, a block of cheese, and a group of nine strangers for whom he upped the price of admission to $17.50.

Word travels fast through the small town. Pretty much everyone has heard about the quirks of his tours inside a week, and after that the flood of eager guests slows to a trickle. He expected this to happen, and always knew it was dangerous to hope that this could become a long-term deal. But he does start trying a little harder, putting together exhibits and oddities using spare parts lying around Stanford's workstation and what he can afford from the taxidermy shop around the corner. Soon enough, people start hearing that he's regularly incorporating new stuff, and there's another spike in local interest.

He's making more money under Stanford's name than he ever did as Stanley—and it's all so poetic, really. Sure, he may be utilizing the tricks he learned on the street over the past decade to con the crap out of these suckers, but it's as close to honest success as he's ever come, and all he had to do was become someone else.

Or, more accurately… take someone else's place.

He doesn't know if this is gonna last, but when at the two-week mark someone comments on how she never would have known about this place had she not heard about it from a friend, Stan figures he should start trying to advertise. If this crazy scheme is going to have any hope of long-term success, he's gotta start letting people know about it himself, rather than relying on the news being spread by word of mouth.

The first thing he needs to come up with is a name. Based on how well people respond to that dumb skeleton, he quickly decides on "Murder Hut" and starts hanging signs around town with his—Stanford's—address. Things are still slower than they were the first week, but they're steady. He's able to get himself a coat that isn't falling apart, his exhibits get more and more elaborate, and he even starts considering paying Stanford's bills. The next step, Stan figures, is decorating the house itself.

Part of him wants to run with the whole "murder" element, but a lot of the people who have stopped by have brought young kids along with them, and he doesn't want to discourage that. So he figures it's best to just stick to the mystery side of things. What lies inside? Dead bodies, weird science experiments, or something altogether unexpected? Who knows?

He's standing on a rickety stepladder, nailing a sign reading "What's this? What's inside?" to the front of a building he doesn't own, wearing his old coat for what he intends to be the last time, when a voice from behind him calls "You!" And God help him, he jumps and so does his stupid heart, because the last time he heard that same shout was across a prison yard, and that day did not go well for him, and maybe it's been almost two years since then but all the same he ends up on the floorboards of his brother's porch, splintery pieces of broken stepladder stabbing into his back. He just lies there for a moment, staring up at the sky and breathing raggedly as he assesses his body for damage. Bruises, definitely, but he ought to be fine.

A face appears above him, and the sun is too bright for him to really make out any details, but a hoarse voice reaches him clearly: "Sweet sarsaparilla, I'm sorry, mister!"

Stan grasps the hand offered to him at the same moment he gathers his wits enough to see it, and he's pulled shakily to his feet. As soon as he's up he can see that the perpetrator of this minor misfortune has one arm in a sling, and Stan wonders if it's his dominant hand—that would explain the unsteadiness of his ascent, anyway.

The guy's face is unfamiliar. He looks terrible—his spectacles are cracked, there are huge dark shadows under his eyes, he's got at least one tooth missing, his chin is unshaven, and his hair's sporting several thick grey streaks despite his looking fairly young. He's not dressed too well either—his jacket isn't in any better shape than Stan's coat.

Stan doesn't respond directly to his apology, and only asks, "Did you want something?"

The man blinks, looking terribly confused already, and Stan feels a stab of pity. He rubs his chin, where an adhesive bandage sits atop his stubble, looking like it's been there for far longer than necessary. "I was just a-thinkin'… do I know you from somewhere?"

 _Crap._ Well, he's come across a couple of people who more or less "recognized" him, like that lady at the convenience store, but it seems Stanford was pretty much a recluse; some people know what he looks like, but none of them really know _him_. Hopefully this guy's the same. "I mean, I've lived here for… a few years. I might have seen you around."

The man steps up close. Uncomfortably close. Stan tenses up and tries not to look directly into the guy's eyes, which he realizes are not quite in agreement with each other direction-wise. "Maybe," the man says, squinting, and Stan clenches a fist, resisting the urge to hold his nose. When was the last time this guy brushed his teeth? "Maybe ya just look like someone I know real well…"

"Probably," Stan says nasally, trying to take a step back and nearly falling off the porch. "What are you doing all the way out here anyway?" he asks, trying to change the subject and maybe get the guy to back the heck off.

It works, to some degree. The guy shrugs and turns towards the front door, surveying it closely. "I dunno, I just was a-walkin' and thought the area looked fameeler… familiar." Something dark passes over his eyes as he says, "It took some doing to figger it was good to come this way after I realized that… but I got nowhere else to go. So whatcha doing here then?"

"Just… working on my new business," Stan answers, frowning. "You have nowhere else to go, like… you… Do you have anywhere to sleep?"

"I got lots of places to sleep!" the man returns brightly.

Stan's not convinced. He casts his eyes about, searching for something to say. "Hey, uh… could you hand me that hammer?" he finally asks, gesturing towards the tool he dropped on his little tumble a moment ago, which now lies at the man's feet.

The guy bends down and scoops it up, holding it out. "Thisee here?"

"Yeah. Thanks." He places it in the large pocket of his coat, out of harm's way. "So… you think you've been here before?"

"Think so! Somethin' about… I dunno, a bright light? Someone else was there, maybe it was you! But… that's where it gets all foggy."

"Seems like most of it's foggy," Stan mutters.

"Anyhoo! I been wrong before, in fact it happens all the time—why just yesterday I tried to eat a watermelon that turned out to be a small dog! Boy was that little girl unhappy!"

Stan scratches his head, starting to wonder if this guy's putting on an act for some bizarre reason. "You… you usually try to eat watermelons you just find lying around?"

"Naw, I got me plenty o' munchins at home, I just… don't usually feel well enough to eat. Get peckish at unpredictable times, see?"

Plenty o' munchins at home. He has food, he's not homeless, so Stan doesn't need to deal with him right now. He's got his own problems. He relaxes his shoulders, allowing any guilt at the idea of just letting this guy walk away emptyhanded to fade away. He'll be fine. Stan doesn't have the resources to spare.

Stanford is counting on him.

"Well," he says, not sure how to get this guy off his property and deciding he's due for a short break anyway, "I hope you remember whatever it is you're trying to remember. Have a good one."

He doesn't leave the guy enough time to reply before he steps swiftly inside and closes the door, but he does catch the look of puzzlement and fear that crosses his face, as if Stan has just suggested something terrible.

* * *

Less than a month later business has slowed down drastically and he's already having withdrawal symptoms from the extra funds. Every time he thinks about the pros and cons of his situation, how he may not have to worry about finding places to sleep but now he has to pay mortgage on a regular basis, he just has to lie down for at least five minutes. And while he does, the bills pile up.

He's at the local supermarket, considering the billboards he passed on the drive over here and wondering how much he'd have to save to be able to get a billboard for the Murder Hut on the nearest highway. At this point it does seem he has enough popularity among the locals to keep making what he'd term a "fair" amount of money—about as much as he made from the one summer job he had before being kicked out of the house, but not enough to live on.

He pushes his cart along the produce aisle, eyeing the outrageously overpriced pears in particular. They don't even look that good. But he'd still buy them, if he didn't already have a full cart and only a $20 bill in his wallet. Paying for everything in cash is starting to become something of an inconvenience. All the money he's made is back at the house, stashed in various hollow spots in the walls and in the backs of drawers.

Sooner or later he's going to have to see about getting into Stanford's bank accounts.

But how's Stanford going to take that when he comes back? It's gonna get messy, to be sure, but… surely the benefits outweigh the disadvantages of this whole setup. There might be other ways he can make a more or less honest living under the current circumstances, ways that don't rely on him taking his brother's name, but for all his efforts, he can't see them. This is what's fallen to him, and he's going to run with it. That makes far more sense to him than letting this completely improbable opportunity slip through his fingers and trusting a world that's never been particularly good to him before to facilitate a search for something else.

Stanford needs him, and to be of any use to Stanford, he needs to _be_ Stanford. They'll work through the legal messiness later. It'll pale in comparison to getting his brother back anyway.

Here's the problem, though: he is very much _not_ Stanford. Stanley hadn't heard from his brother in ten years up till he received that postcard, but he _knows_ his brother, and he's found plenty of evidence of what he's been doing around this house. Stanford is the one who picked himself up out of the ashes of the destruction his brother left in his wake, who went to school even though he wouldn't have the opportunities he deserved, who worked himself half to death and—based on what Stan saw—half to insanity in the pursuit of his goals. Stanford's the one who applied his talents to something productive and consistent, kept to himself, and probably never strayed outside the law.

And then there's Stanley. The one who never finished high school, hasn't managed to go two years without seeing the inside of a prison cell since he was nineteen, and has committed countless other crimes he was never caught for. The one who can't count on both hands the number of people who would kill him on sight. The one who has never managed to assimilate into civilized society on his own or lived in the same place for more than a year. The one who's come to think of legality as one of the lesser factors to consider when making a decision.

It's been a very long time since he's been able to live comfortably for this long while staying inside the law. He's gotta admit, it's been… nice.

But it's never felt like something that could last.

Stan realizes he's been standing in this aisle staring at those stupid pears for a good two minutes and the grandma behind him is starting to get impatient. He pulls his hands out of his pockets and hurriedly pushes the cart out of the way.

His hands are perfectly steady as he places the lunch meat, noodles, crackers, and milk on the counter and pays with his twenty. They stay that way as he accepts his change and bags from the cashier, returns the cart to its proper place, and gets into his trusty old car. And they don't even twitch when, at the halfway point to Stanford's house, he removes a pear from his large pocket and takes a bite.

* * *

Stan makes the billboard a real goal that day. If he has to shoplift every once in a while to make it happen, so be it. It's no worse than some of the things he's done before. He'll need to save a bit longer to be able to afford a good design, but the only real hindrance is the name, which needs to be solidified before he spends big bucks on advertising like this. He's not so sold on "Murder Hut" anymore. It isn't really in line with the theme he keeps finding himself slipping back to—weird science. It's easy to use the stuff Stanford left lying all over the place to tell stories of UFOs and ghost hunts. He just needs to think of a new name to go with it.

He's doing some cleaning for the first time in the four months he's been living here when he unearths what amounts to be a colossal pile of gadgets and gizmos he doesn't know the first thing about. He finds wrenches under couches, remote controls for who knows what in drawers, and batteries in the back of the fridge. He even discovers some previously unaccounted for objects hidden away in the corners of the area he's set aside for guests. By the end of the first hour of cleaning he's got a sizeable box full of electronic parts that he's a little afraid to touch more than was necessary to get them into the box, let alone show them to tourists. Then again… the people in this town have thus far proven themselves not to be exceptionally bright. He's already talked his way out of at least three potential lawsuits. Still probably best to err on the side of caution though. He cannot afford to get sued right now.

He's been doing a lot of bending over, so he deems it a decent time for a respite. He sits down on the couch with a can of Pitt Cola that he acquired the old way, and sets the box on the coffee table in front of him, ready to go through it. As a precaution, he's wearing the pair of safety goggles he found in a kitchen cabinet. They're huge, and would definitely fit comfortably over a pair of glasses.

Stan starts sorting the objects that seem safest to touch according to their probable usability in tours. Anything he can get to throw off sparks goes in the "maybe" pile—definitely entertaining enough, but also dangerous enough that further precautions will have to be taken. The scraps that clearly aren't serving any purpose on their own go into the reject pile, but soon enough it occurs to him that he might be able to use them to build non-science-y attractions, so they become their own sub-pile. Everything that looks like it probably does something but that he has no idea how to use gets sorted together too. He's not sure he'll be able to do anything with those; there are probably explanations for all of them somewhere in this house—Ford has some really impressive towers of charts and blueprints down in the basement, and there are plenty more pinned to the walls in various rooms throughout the building—but he has little faith in his own ability to match up those explanations with the right scientific gizmos.

The "yes" pile ends up being pretty abysmal. There's not enough overlap from what he knows how to safely operate to what he suspects will be received well by tourists.

"Why d'ya have to be so smart, Poindexter?" he mutters to the kinda-sorta organized electronics strewn in front of him.

 _If he weren't so smart, none of this mess would have happened in the first place._

Nope. Enough of that. He has more productive things to think about. Like the most effective ways to get people to give him their money.

As he surveys the haphazard piles he's made, a thought occurs to him. It's become clear that for however long he'll be keeping this up, creating new attractions is going to be necessary. He's gotten a few repeat customers and he knows that's only going to continue if he's regularly coming out with new stuff. And… he doesn't know how long he's going to be able to do that if he has to stick to the whole science thing. Not to mention the possibility of someone who actually knows what they're doing with equipment like this stumbling in over time and exposing him for the fraud he is—

Stan puts his face in his hands. He's worrying too much. And yet… he knows that something's gotta change. This science stuff is Stanford's; the business it gave birth to is Stanley's. Out of necessity, if not legally or morally. It's Stan's, and he has to remember that. He has to make it his own. And Stanley Pines knows next to nothing about science.

Fine, so if he removes the science aspect of things… well, there's still plenty of paranormal lore to draw from, right? Maybe he could even base some of it around the stuff Stanford wrote in that spooky journal—

He's not going to do that. Never in a million years. He can't risk anyone finding out about that book. He doesn't know why Stanford was so hell-bent on keeping it hidden but intact, but he's sure there's a good reason, and even without that whole… exchange, it's better to be safe than sorry. No one can know. Besides… based on what he's read in that thing, there is some truly dangerous stuff in and around this town, much more dangerous than some tiny whirring box throwing off sparks.

He'll use the book to stay safe and to figure out the portal, and go no farther than that.

So, paranormal lore. Unscientific stuff like Sasquatch and jackalopes and Nessie. He can do that. That'll sell.

Definitely, definitely going to need to rename the place.

* * *

The Mystery Shack has been up and running for almost half a year and business has never been better. Recently he decided that things were going well enough that he should take some steps to secure his place as Stanford Pines, founder and owner of the Mystery Shack.

He doesn't have many resources, but he has just enough to kill Stanley Pines in a fatal car crash.

He hangs the newspaper clipping by his mirror, which has the strange and kind of unpleasant effect of inducing a daily minor existential crisis. He stands there, staring himself in the face, knowing who he is, but also knowing that the entire world—or whatever tiny portion of it would care either way—believes him to be dead.

It's an odd feeling, but he almost likes it. It's a chance to start fresh.

Or at least it would be if he weren't working day and night to bring back the man he's pretending to be.

Invariably after he goes through this thought process, he adjusts his new fez, reminds himself of all his short-term goals for the day— _take advantage of every opportunity to make an extra buck_ is always at the top of the list—and heads downstairs to open up shop.

He's started ordering shipments of common gift shop items like snow globes, hats, and geodes to bring in a little income beyond the price of admission. He doesn't make much of a profit off of them, but they sell pretty easily, and it's little extra effort that he has to expend. He pretty much just writes "Mystery Shack" in sharpie on the snow globes and draws big question marks on the hats. With the way things are going, he's pretty sure that soon he'll be able to get some higher-quality products and mark up the prices.

It is not lost on him that with the extra time he's been spending on the business lately, he's had less time to devote to searching for the other journals and working on the portal. He's gotten to the point where he's just delaying the inevitable—he's hit a roadblock with the portal, and until he can find the rest of the blueprints for it, he's got to work on understanding what he's got.

Basically, he's going to have to teach himself theoretical physics.

It's not that he doesn't have the motivation; he's got that and more. It's that he doesn't have the means. The only material currently at his fingertips is stuff written by a guy who already had an impressive background in the area, and his handwriting isn't even that legible all the time. Stanford is _brilliant_ , and he's been _prolific_. Stanley's a high school dropout. It's a huge task and every time he considers it the practical impossibility of the situation nearly overwhelms him.

Step one is acquiring some textbooks. Hopefully Stanford's got _something_ near a beginner's level around this place. If Stan can't find any, he'll just have to order some. It'll cost a pretty penny, but this is why he's been amassing pretty pennies anyway. This is what it's all been for.

Just last year, if he'd found himself making this kind of money, he'd have been hoarding it like a miser. It would all be in the name of going back home to New Jersey, of proving he could make something of himself. Now? He knows the latter part of that is out of the cards completely. And forget going home—Stanford is currently further away from home than Stanley could ever dream.

If he's even alive.

 _Nope_. _Don't think about that. Think about how much progress you're making. Think about how much more successful you are than you ever thought you could be._

It's safest just to think about the money.

It hurts less.

* * *

Stanley has been Mr. Mystery for a full two years when he finally makes a breakthrough with his understanding of his brother's portal.

He's in the basement and the last time he looked at the clock it was 2:36 AM. He resolutely refuses to check the time again between now and whenever he finally goes to bed. Tonight's a planned late one. He slept in far too late this morning, so he figures he owes this to Stanford. As long as he gets at least four hours and opens up the Shack before 10 AM, he'll be fine.

He's poring over a textbook entitled _A Beginner's Guide to Multidimensional Paradigm Theory_ , which he's been struggling through for over a year now and is still less than halfway through, when suddenly something just _connects_ in his head and he reads that sentence a second time, a third, a fourth, and yep, it still makes sense, and he moves on and finishes the paragraph, and one tiny aspect of the dangers of repeated travel between two points in two different dimensions is crystal clear to him, and he hasn't felt this good in a _long_ time.

After getting up and dancing a brief jig, he returns to his desk and adds a couple bullet points to his notes, just to be sure he'll still understand this later on. Next on the docket is an inspection of a piece of Stanford's equipment.

As far as he's seen, anything that travels through a transuniversal metavortex must pass through an area between dimensions, and there is matter in that non-space with properties not fully understood. But based on what he's read, it has been known to trigger strange phenomena when it occurs within a dimension, and hypothesized to cause instability across the multiverse. It clings to anything that passes from one dimension to another, and Stanford built a regulator that prevents its entrance through his portal.

Sure enough, when Stanley locates that regulator, he quickly concludes that it's busted. Whatever it is that went wrong when Stanford was sucked through the portal, it left the interdimensional matter regulator inoperable. He'll need to repair it before the portal's up and running again.

Within two hours of searching, Stan manages to find the blueprints labeled "IDMR," and within two minutes of inspecting it, he draws two conclusions. One, he only understands about ten percent of it, but it might be reasonable to hope that that will be enough to fix whatever's wrong with the thing. And two, he's going to need some new parts. Fortunately everything in the diagram is clearly labeled, so he ought to be able to figure out where he needs to go to find all the replacement parts he'll need. Unfortunately, he's reasonably sure that it's going to cost more than he makes in a month.

He sits on the cold floor, staring at the diagram with a hand on his face frozen mid-rub, brain working furiously trying to decide on the best way to acquire those parts. He could always steal them, he supposes… but Stanford's probably on some list of people likely to need equipment like that, and he _cannot_ get caught. No, he'll need to steal the money he'll need and use that to buy the necessary materials. Credit card fraud? Or he could straight up scam someone. Probably a lot of someones.

Some voice in the back of his mind admonishes him, and it sounds suspiciously like Stanford's.

 _Can it, Poindexter. This is all for you._

* * *

It's about a month after he fixes the regulator that Stanley Pines first realizes he might have a problem.

He's got two employees now—a handywoman and a local twentysomething who works the cash register most days after his classes. (He commutes; it's a forty-five minute drive to the nearest university. Stanley can't for the life of him imagine what's keeping the guy from just moving out of this hick town for the school year.) Between those two, Stan has managed to find more free time to work through his growing pile of textbooks and conduct searches for the other two journals—though he's pretty much exhausted all his strategies with that latter effort, but he refuses to stop trying.

It's a warm spring morning and there are a lot of families and groups of college age people coming by on spring break road trips. There's been a steady flood of tourists, to the point where his voice was starting to get hoarse from giving tours and he had his usual cashier swap places with him. He's averaging a sale every ten minutes or so, which is pretty good.

He usually spends the first half of those ten-minute lulls just holding the cash from the last purchase made, and the latter half counting up the contents of the register.

And he realizes a couple minutes before noon that the warm weight of coins in his palm and the soft touch of bills to his fingertips is almost what he would call… comforting. And every time he counts up the grand total of all the cash in the register, it provides him with more satisfaction than he feels with every chapter he finishes in _A Beginner's Guide to Multidimensional Paradigm Theory_. It's something with value that he can hold in his hand, and it's something of his own.

That's the reason why holding the cash makes him feel a bit better, and Stan doesn't see a problem with it. But unfortunately, there's a little more to it—he'd find it hard to deny that lately he's been thinking about finances more than he ever has before, and not necessarily in a constructive way. When he thinks back on it, he realizes that in the ten years he spent on his own, all that time between being kicked out of the house and being summoned to Gravity Falls, all that time he was trying to make his fortune… he never really thought all that much about money. What was on his mind instead was either his next product or gimmick, or the first things he'd spend money on when he got it—depending on how bad his condition was at the time. Money was involved in either scenario, but money's involved everywhere you look. It was never _about_ the money before. The time he'd been living in his car for a solid three weeks and would have done anything to make enough to sleep in a motel bed for one night, it was about comfort. The time right after he got jumped in San Antonio and decided he was overdue for owning some kind of handgun, it was about safety. The time he got out of his three-month incarceration for petty theft and public intoxication because he couldn't make bail, it was about freedom. And every time he found himself in a peaceful area and a more or less secure job, when he had a bed to sleep in every night and a reliable source of meals, it was about saving up enough to impress his father and finally go back home.

Those were the days when money was a means to an end. Now… now he doesn't know what it is. But he's finding himself thinking about it more than he ever did before. Now that he doesn't have to concern himself with it so much, he is doing so more and more.

 _That doesn't make_ any _sense, Pines_ , he tells himself fiercely.

Needless to say, this scolding doesn't change the level of comfort afforded to him by the crisp bills he holds in his hand.

* * *

Stanley is nearly fifty-one years old when he can first say with reasonable confidence that the portal is operational—or would be, if he had the other two journals.

All necessary parts have been purchased or otherwise acquired, all necessary repairs and installations have been made, and all necessary protocols have been learned. Stan knows how to conduct emergency procedures, read all cryptograms the machine spits at him, and input the data that will connect him to the right dimension. He will never understand how his brother built this thing from scratch, but he's become intimately familiar with how to work it.

All that remains is finding the other two thirds of the puzzle.

He's decoded almost every single one of the ciphers his brother has scattered throughout Journal 1. Not one has proven at all helpful in determining the location of the book's two sequels, and he's frankly rather put out that the nerd would make him go through the trouble for useless tidbits like "Their necks taste like your favorite flavor!"

Journal 1 can't help him any more than it has.

He's done the reading, punched the numbers, calculated the risks. He's spent countless nights teaching himself material he was never meant to understand. He's committed tax fraud as many times as it took to be able to buy the equipment and resources he's needed. He's scoured every nook and cranny of this house for the other journals or any hint of where they might be. He's come up completely dry.

It's not until about half a year after it happens that he realizes he's crossed the threshold.

This is it.

There's nothing else he can do.

* * *

Years pass in lethargy.

Years of unproductivity.

Stanley just about loses his mind.

During the day, whenever he has a spare hour or so, he goes out into the woods to search for any trace of a hiding spot for a journal, usually thoroughly dedicating his thoughts to whatever financial concern is most relevant so he doesn't have to think about the terrifying but very real possibility that the other two puzzle pieces are not even hidden in Gravity Falls.

Every night, he descends to the basement, and performs his routine check of all the equipment. Finding defects is very rare. Most of those defects are easily solved by dusting off a key piece of metal or adjusting a wire. After his check, he skims the seven notebooks full of notes that he took in the years he spent teaching himself all that he'd need to know to reopen the gateway to whatever hell Stanford had landed in because of him. He has to be sure none of the concepts are fading from his mind during this inescapable period of uselessness. And after that is done, he reads Journal 1 cover to cover, searching, _praying_ for some hint to saving his brother that he knows is not there.

It's an endless cycle that bears no fruit and it becomes overwhelmingly clear that there is nothing new to be garnered from it after the first year or so of nightly checkups and rereads, but the prospect of stepping away for even one twenty-four hour cycle and becoming _completely_ useless is far more frightening than driving himself insane with the hollow repetition.

They are the darkest years of his life thus far.

He wishes he were able to just be happy with what he's managed to accomplish. Not necessarily stop his efforts—certainly not that, but at least feel some sense of achievement, and recognition that he can only do so much. But he refuses to feel any sort of accomplishment as long as Stanford is on the wrong side of the portal. Because until that's rectified, he has achieved _nothing_.

The money still helps—God forgive him, but whenever he reminds himself of how much he's made so far in the day, whenever he manages to convince a kid to buy just one more piece of crap from his gift shop, whenever he rings up the total of an entire family's purchases, whenever he finds a freaking dime on the sidewalk, he feels better. It may not matter at all compared to the real reason he's stayed in this insane town for so long, but it's all he has to show for himself after these twenty-plus years here. He doesn't spend it if he can help it—and usually that means thievery rather than penny-pinching. A decade of staying just one step ahead of the law left some mark on his psyche all right, and it certainly doesn't help that Gravity Falls has just about the laxest police force he's ever encountered in his life. Whenever he feels guilty enough to have to rationalize his crimes to himself—which is rare—he just tells himself that everyone in this town is practically asking to be robbed.

Besides, he doesn't let himself be limited to simple thievery. In a town where he can get away with pretty much anything, he would be insulting his own honor if he didn't get more creative.

His ever-expanding criminal horizons have their roots, he knows, in his growing need to save as much money as possible. And ironically, he's okay with the crime in general in a way that he isn't okay with the miserliness. Because the miserliness, the money, has become a replacement for his efforts to bring Stanford back.

And he's losing control of it.

If he's honest with himself, he lost control a long time ago. Just because he was eventually able to put some kind of lid on it doesn't mean it didn't swell to greater proportions than he ever intended. The money _matters_ to him in a way he never wanted it to. But there's no changing it now.

And maybe… now would be a good time to accept that. He's never needed a distraction more than he does in these times of utter futility. He'd rather lie awake at night thinking about something he can do something about than something he's been unable to achieve in over twenty years of trying. And why stop there? Every idle moment he spends letting tourists _ooh_ and _ahh_ at some cheap attraction, standing by the cash register while customers count their change, waiting for Soos to tell him what the problem with the heater is, brushing his teeth and getting dressed in the morning, sitting at Gravity Falls' ridiculous traffic lights, he could be mulling over the green stuff rather than Stanford.

Not _every_ idle moment. He'll never be able to stop thinking about his brother and the portal if he tries for… for. For however long it takes to solve it. But if what he's considering does even a fraction of what it could, it'll be far better than continuing to wallow in uselessness.

All right then. He'll switch gears. He'll start filling the emptiness in his life with money rather than misery at being just as useless as he's always been to the people who matter to him. And maybe… just maybe, it'll improve his focus.

Stan can't help but feel he's putting his already fragile and darkened soul on the line with this deal, but he doesn't see any other way out.

* * *

When in March of 2012 his nephew contacts him about his two children coming up to stay at the Shack over the summer, Stanley very nearly shoots him down immediately. He's an old man who slipped into greed and made a mindful decision to care too much about money because the alternative was losing his mind over his inability to rescue his brother from a nightmare dimension. No part of him feels ready or able to take care of young kids for any length of time, and if he were in his nephew's position and knew him more closely, he knows he would never be making this request.

The thirtieth anniversary is this summer. He's already anticipating the long night of binge drinking and probably the two hours or so of complete despair before he picks himself up again, reminds himself that giving up would only be an option if Stanford weren't on the line, and prepares for another decade of attempts to do what he's slowly beginning to suspect is impossible. No child should be within a mile of him while that's going down, and he knows that it will.

Then again… if he makes care of the kids the given rather than the drinking, then the drinking is simply nullified. As completely inexperienced as he is with taking care of children, he knows that he would never allow himself to act that way if he had to be a guardian figure.

And really, that's probably a good thing.

He's standing there in the kitchen, still clutching the phone so tight his knuckles are turning white, and his nephew says, "Uh, Uncle Stan? You still there?"

"I gotta think about it," he hears himself say. The words ring in his head even as his nephew replies, and as he answers back. After a few pleasantries, he hangs up, and stands still for a good three minutes, staring at the wall.

 _What are you thinking, you idiot?_

He tears his gaze away from the faded wallpaper and moves across the room to the fridge. His movements are slow as he gets out the materials to make himself a sandwich. A lot of time passes between bites. He realizes he's staring at the same spot on the wallpaper.

 _You think you can take care of a couple of twelve-year-olds?_

Suddenly remembering something, he heads up to his bedroom and starts rifling through his closet, searching for the box of cards he usually doesn't look at more than once before stuffing them in there. He finds it in the back corner and goes several layers deep before he finds it—Christmas of 2007, from the Pines family. Three pictures are enclosed—the largest is of two bright, happy kids with their arms on each other's shoulders and wide strips of hair missing. The other two are individual pictures of the same kids, with Dipper wearing a blue cap and Mabel with a thick scarf wrapped around her head. The handwritten note in the card reads, "Dipper and Mabel are just as close and just as wild as ever."

 _You don't know these kids at all._

He's still holding the picture of both of them as he trudges back down the stairs. On reaching the bottom, he sees through the window to the gift shop that Wendy's at the register, explaining to a local family that the next scheduled tour isn't for another half hour. His eyes fall on the vending machine, and something inside him pangs, not nearly for the first time, at the thought that he won't be able to go down and work until the business day's over.

 _They don't have any idea who you are either, and you don't want them to._

Having children living in this house will mean he'll have to be so much more careful. And even outside of that… his nephew and niece-in-law will be expecting him to spend _time_ with them. He's not exactly a role model, and he doesn't even know how to talk to children. He can already picture how bored they'll be, how disappointed when they see how pathetic he is, how much they'll despise this tiny town by the end of the summer and look forward to going home to Piedmont.

 _What, just looking to see if there are even more ways for you to fail your family?_

He freezes in mid-step.

That's it.

He's a ridiculous man who's lived alone since he was eighteen, who never has enough money, whose family doesn't know him from atom, who's devoted nearly thirty years of his pathetic existence to getting his brother back from wherever he's been trapped all this time.

And he's also incredibly, horribly selfish.

He's completely cut off from his family, almost as much as Stanford. He's met these kids all of two times, at family reunions he didn't even want to attend. This may be the last chance he'll ever have to form a human connection, and with two kids who are related to him, no less.

He's failed his family. His family has failed him.

But these kids might be different.

Stan Pines is not a good man. He knows that. And honestly, he's not about to believe for even a second that these kids could help him become one. But…

But.

He doesn't know what he's hoping for.

He just knows that hope is something he hasn't felt in a long time.

* * *

 **AN:** _Basically, I felt like in flashbacks, particularly A Tale of Two Stans, Stan never really exhibited any particular desire to be rich. All he ever wanted was to go sailing with his brother, and he must have known that that wouldn't exactly be a lucrative lifestyle. Sure there was talk of "treasure hunting," but I feel like that was never the focus—it was all about adventures with Stanford. He only started giving tours at the Shack because he needed food. But as he is consistently portrayed in season one and the first half of season two, he cares about money beyond what's necessary to make a living. Even after Ford is back, we get scenes like the one at the end of The Last Mabelcorn, with him grabbing piles of gold and screaming_ "Money!" _It seemed that he developed a money addiction at some point in those thirty years, and I wanted to explore how that might have happened._

 _Part two will focus on the development of this issue while Mabel and Dipper are staying in the Shack, and part three will take place after Ford has returned and the portal is no longer a looming and constant problem in the background of Stan's life._

 _I'm still not sure if this is the best way to break it up, but it's the best idea I've got. Let me know what you think!_


	2. Turbulence

This was a bad idea.

He introduced himself by offering a prosthetic hand to shake and screaming when it came off in the boy's hand. His great nephew screamed as well, and Stan swears his voice cracked three times in that single shriek. Meanwhile the girl, Mabel, was already laughing so hard she couldn't even shake his hand properly. He has a good feeling about her.

Dipper doesn't seem too upset about the prank, but he's been looking askance at Stan ever since. Stan supposes that's fair. He knew he was risking starting off on the wrong foot when he decided on the fake out, but above all else he wanted to be honest with the kids about the kind of person he is. There's so little he can be honest about these days. And if these kids are going to be here for three months, he doesn't want to waste any time at the beginning pretending he's not a crooked conman. Then he'd have to ease them into that reality at some point and it would be in some way unpleasant for all involved. No, this is for the best.

Mabel, in the meantime, has spent about an hour talking with him, and it's only the first day. Well, it felt less like a conversation than it did an interrogation—fortunately nothing very personal, the kid just has a _lot_ of questions about the town and the Mystery Shack. How old is this town? What is there to do? Is there a mall? Are there parks? Is the food here good? Roughly how many boys her age? Are they cute? What about the Shack? What's the deal there? How long has he been managing it? Do a lot of cute boys come here?

Stan answered to the best of his ability, and though he didn't have much information in the way of the attractiveness levels of the local twelve-year-olds, Mabel seemed pleased enough.

They arrived in the early afternoon and have spent most of the couple hours that have elapsed since then unpacking their things in the attic. While they do, Stan is sitting at the kitchen table, trying to remember why he thought this would be a good thing. So far Dipper hasn't spoken much and Mabel has, but in the latter case all it did was remind Stan that he has no idea how to talk to children. Should he be gentle? They're twelve; is that an age where you still need to be coddled? His first instinct would be _heck no_ , they're quite old enough to know how cruel the world is. He's ready to fight tooth and nail to keep them from experiencing that cruelty firsthand, but no way is he going to pretend it's not there. They've gotta be ready for it.

But there's supposed to be _some_ difference between the way you speak to children and the way you speak to adults, isn't there?

He balls up his fists in determination. Stan Pines doesn't wimp out on anything. The kids are here and there's no undoing that; he can't go the entire summer without speaking to them, so he's just gotta communicate in the only way he knows how.

"Hey kids," he crows as he steps into the attic, "wanna walk downtown to a diner with food so raw you think it might crawl off your plate so we can secretly snicker at and possibly pickpocket the strange Gravity Falls passersby?"

"YEAH!" Mabel shouts immediately, nearly knocking over her tall suitcase overflowing sweaters as she throws her hands into the air, face lit up with excitement.

Dipper is sitting on one of the beds, a bag of sheets and pillows next to him and a book in his hands. He's looking at Stan with his eyebrows drawn together in mild concern. "That's… a joke, right?"

Stan waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Yeah, if you order vegetarian the food's not really that bad."

Dipper blinks. "That's not what I…"

"Hey, I'm not gettin' any younger over here. Chop, chop." He stands aside and gestures towards the hallway, but he's smiling to show he means well. Mabel hurriedly pulls her shoes on and the two of them chase each other out the door, laughing.

Stan stands there a few moments longer, surveying the room. They don't seem to have gotten too much unpacking done. Looks like Dipper went as far as it took to find the book that now lies on his bare bed and then was completely and irrevocably distracted by it. Mabel was in the midst of going through her suitcase that seems to be entirely filled with sweaters.

He's not sure what they could have been doing up here that would keep them from being finished with packing at this point. It's been a few hours, and they don't have that much stuff… Suddenly it occurs to him that they're two young kids in a brand new place, and they seem adventurous. They probably didn't spend the entire time in this room. Immediately panic stabs into his heart, but he forces himself to calm down; he doesn't have anything incriminating up here that they would be able to find with any sort of ease. They were just being kids, having fun and exploring.

Sounds pretty familiar, actually.

He trudges towards the stairs, suddenly wishing for his bed. He doesn't have the energy for this. In this moment, it feels like he never will.

Ain't that just the way of things, though? _Fake it till you make it, Stan, that's how you've gotten this far._ All he has to do is pretend he can handle being a guardian until he isn't pretending anymore.

He'll probably end up having to do that about the general nature of this whole crazy town, though that situation is a bit different in that it's _never_ going to be safe here, no matter how much he lies about it.

That's another thing: he still hasn't quite figured out how he's going to handle it if either of them catches on to the supernatural insanity going on in the background of Gravity Falls. And they probably will; they seem like smart kids, way smarter than about ninety-eight percent of this town's population. How likely is it that he's going to be able to lie convincingly enough to keep them out of trouble?

"Great Uncle Stan!" comes Mabel's shout from downstairs. He's still standing at the top of the steps with his hand on the rail, lost in thought. Since when does he get distracted so easily? Getting old is for the birds.

He wonders if Stanford gets distracted this easily.

Stan checks his pocket for his wallet, adjusts his fez, puts on a smile, and heads down to take his great niece and nephew to have supper at one of the cheapest establishments in town.

* * *

The kids haven't even been here for two weeks when they uncover the wax museum in the storage closet behind the wallpaper. Stan can't help but be impressed; he himself had forgotten about that room almost completely. But with that impressment comes a fresh wave of worry; if it took them a week and a half to find a door behind the wallpaper, and they'll be here all summer, isn't it a fair concern that they'll find the door behind the vending machine? Or the box of fake IDs in his room? Should he destroy them? Should he take steps to make sure the kids spend less time in the gift shop?

He learns shortly afterward that it was actually Soos who found the room and told them about it, and he very nearly lets a huge sigh of relief escape him at that news.

He doesn't see much of Mabel for the rest of the day. He spends the time looking for various articles of clothing that he's misplaced and mentally cursing himself for being so old. Not that it's anything he can help of course; it just reminds him of a time when he was younger, and invariably when he remembers his youth, he remembers the person he spent it with.

His newest clothing search isn't going so well, so when he hears the voices of his handyman and great niece and nephew across the house, he follows them to see if perhaps they have any idea where his loafers are. He walks into the room—and is met with his own face staring back at him.

His heart just about stops, and immediately he's on the floor, scrambling backwards frantically, because he's a twin, and if he's seeing his own face anywhere other than mirrors or photographs that he remembers being taken then he knows full well what that means—except the kids clearly see it as a perfectly normal thing, and this other him is dressed just like him and isn't moving, and _he is such an idiot_ , it's not Stanford, how could it be Stanford?

They're all looking at him, and Mabel appears directly beside his head, and she asks with such pride and excitement in her eyes, "What do you think?"

Nope. Nope nope nope. He cannot continue his previous vein of thought. It's going to destroy him.

He's gotta make some money.

And this gives him the perfect opportunity.

The Mystery Shack Wax Museum reopens, and he has to bribe Dipper and Wendy to work the ticket booth, but the profit he makes is absolutely worth it. So many townsfolk show up to something that he wouldn't pay more than a nickel for, but he really shouldn't be surprised at this point. They'll pay just about anything for entertainment in this town.

It's a good day, a profitable day, and by the time of evening when he sits down in front of the TV, he's already gotten comfortable talking to the wax model of himself like it's a real person. And despite his original efforts to stifle the impulse, he's come to accept the automatic Stanford-esque responses that form in his brain after every sentence he addresses to wax Stan. Even after nearly thirty years, he can still so easily hear his brother's voice in his head.

Unfortunately, when others are present to witness these "exchanges," he's gotta be more careful with how he responds to wax Stan's comments, because they're expecting him to see the replica as another Stanley. Not as Stanford.

Or rather… as another Stanford. Man, this is messy.

They don't know the real Stanford exists.

With luck, one day they will, but today is not that day.

This wax replica of himself may be a weak stand-in, but it's more than he's had in almost three decades, and even though he really shouldn't, every time he "interacts" with it he feels a little more peaceful about his current state of total uselessness to the real Stanford.

He should have known it couldn't last.

When he walks into his living room and sees wax Stan's empty neck, it almost feels like losing him all over again. He almost considers feeling foolish for it, but then he reminds himself how ridiculous and outlandish he's become in these years spent alone with nothing but money to keep him company, and he knows he can get away with it.

While the kids are off conducting an investigation he should probably be supervising, he's preparing a memorial service. He's already stolen the coffin before he starts to have second thoughts. He realizes that ever since he got over the shock that someone broke into the Shack just to decapitate a wax sculpture, the thought that's been circulating in his mind the most has been _I didn't have a body to bury before._

Which is a load of hogwash.

Of course there wasn't a body before; why would there be? Stanford is _alive_. He has to believe that. He's made the constant choice to believe that for thirty years.

It's just… when he disappeared into the portal, Stan launched straight into trying to get him back. It's all he was able to think about for years, and even now it's a constant nagging in the back of his mind, a bid to _do something_ , to _save Stanford_ , even in the times when there was simply nothing more to be done that he hadn't already tried.

Stanford may not be dead, but he _is_ gone. And that means Stanley needs time to grieve.

He stops in his tracks, nearly dropping the cumbersome coffin he's trying to lug upstairs. That statement needs a revision. He's been doing something sufficiently similar to grieving ever since he lost Stanford. This isn't about him; it's about his brother. It's not about recovery; it's about remembrance.

His genuine distress at recent events seems to be coming across more clearly than he thought, because when he asks the kids to attend the service, they agree readily. Soos's willingness to come doesn't surprise him, but he had mostly expected Dipper and Mabel to meet his request with some excuse involving their investigation. But with less than a second's pause Dipper says, "Sure, Grunkle Stan. We'll be there." And Mabel nods along with his words.

From their limited perspectives, he's acting utterly ridiculous, and he knows it. He's just glad he apparently doesn't have to justify himself to anyone.

As he's moving a large group of life-sized wax sculptures into a dimly lit room with a headless wax copy of himself lying in a coffin at the front and wondering what his life has become, he's considering shutting down the wax museum after its first day of being back—if for no other reason than to give him less reason to think about this whole fiasco. The kids' search for his wax head isn't looking good. He thinks he'd rather just let it go, sweep this under the rug, and continue on with the regular old Mystery Shack. He's sure word will get out that the reason for reopening the exhibit has been destroyed, and he doubts business will be very good after that happens.

 _That's right, Stan. Think about the business. Think about the money._

He stares at the large photo of himself and wax Stan hanging on the wall, wondering what possessed him to print it at such a size and put it in a frame in less than twenty-four hours. Did he really have nothing better to do? Nothing better to spend money on?

As the kids and Soos enter the room right on time, Stan ponders what he ought to say. Sure, if he were the only sentient attendee he would be able to speak more freely, but— _but_ , he reminds himself fiercely, _this is_ not _for Stanford, because Stanford's_ not dead _._ Besides, if he wanted to say a few words in honor of his brother, he could always do so in the huge underground laboratory he spends most evenings in that nobody knows about but him.

It's not something it's ever occurred to him to do.

He stares out at the small sea of mostly frozen faces, and glances at the headless wax effigy of himself lying in a coffin next to him, and he realizes he has _no flipping idea_ what he's doing here. It's not honoring Stanford, it's not making him feel better. This service is doing nothing to help either him or his brother. So what exactly does he think he's doing standing at this stupid podium?

He thanks everyone for attending, just to stall for time, and manages to get out, "Some people might say it's wrong for a man to love a wax replica of himself." The statement is immediately challenged vehemently by Soos, but Stan carefully avoids taking a side on the issue. Suddenly he just wants all this to be over with.

"Wax Stan," he says, turning to address his own headless wax body, "I hope you're picking pockets in wax heaven." Short and sweet. Hopefully that's all he needs. He covers his eyes and flees the room, already planning on heading down to the basement and just wallowing in illogical sorrow for the next few hours—but dang it all to heck, he hears Soos's unmistakable footfalls coming after him.

There's no escape from that. He stops halfway down the hall and turns to face his handyman, who appears to be genuinely crying. "Mr. Pines, my condolences," he manages through his tears, and Stan is beyond uncomfortable at this point, but the guy is clearly distraught and it's his fault; he's gotta say _something_.

He sighs. "Thanks, Soos," he says, rubbing the back of his head. The words tumble out of him unfiltered. "It's just… I dunno, seeing him, it… reminded me of happier times."

Soos sniffles. "He sure had a big smile."

Stan blinks at him, registering what he said, and thanking God that Soos came up with a quick and easy way to make it make sense. "He did, didn't he?" he agrees, laying a hand on Soos's shoulder with a light chuckle. "Look, I… I gotta be alone for a bit. Why don't you go… I dunno, fix something. Get your mind off things."

His handyman nods, and straightens his hat slightly. "You got it, Mr. Pines."

Stan smiles, and turns to continue down the hall.

* * *

They're onto him.

When that huge bus full of tourists rolled in this morning, he was immediately sizing each one up, trying to figure out what they would be most likely to spend money on, and instructing Wendy to up the gift shop prices to outlandish figures. He could always restore the original prices after they were gone, and they looked like reasonably well off people; if just one of them made a purchase in the gift shop, it would be worth it.

Then came Dipper's observation: "Eesh, Grunkle Stan. It's like when you look at tourists all you see are wallets with legs."

He denied it automatically, but the picture the boy painted was surprisingly easy for him to visualize. It was a fun game he played for a few fleeting moments until some schmuck stumbled out of the vehicle and vomited on his front lawn.

He saw the look Dipper was giving him, and he knew exactly what it meant—essentially that the kid was seeing him as a human being, not a wallet, who has serious relational problems with other human beings. It was very true; he wasn't about to deny it, and he was glad he didn't have to hide it from the kids.

That's what he told himself at the time anyway, just before sending Dipper to do cleanup so he wouldn't have to deal with the topic of conversation anymore.

Later that same morning, when Mabel starts giving bumper stickers away for free, he removes her from the register immediately. Of course, she's so young and naïve, she starts ragging on him about the importance of "please" and "thank you." He freely admits that he's not a polite man, and he does it with pride. Yes, he's a tough boss, he runs a tight ship, he keeps his eyes on the prize. But then later she just pops into his office, clearly upset, and starts lecturing him on his ethics and his general demeanor, and he is not at all ready or willing to deal with this right now. Or ever. She's a twelve-year-old girl with no business sense, and he tells her as much, but the conversation quickly spirals out of control. She's genuinely upset about his methods, she's talking about things completely beyond her capacity to understand, and suddenly an insane idea takes shape in his mind.

Leaving for three days will mean missing three of his nightly portal checks and journal rereads. He hasn't gone that long without spending any time in the basement since… since before he ever set foot in Gravity Falls. Heck, he hasn't left this town once in the three decades he's lived here under his brother's name.

But he can always bring the journal with him, and his notes, and… and he'd be truly crazy if he couldn't admit that leaving the portal alone for three days would make no difference whatsoever. His checks have been becoming less thorough in the last several weeks anyway, what with all the time he's been spending with the children, and he knows that they have plenty of room to do so.

Maybe this would be good for him.

And he knows exactly where he's going to go.

Getting in as one of the contestants is not difficult in the slightest. One of the perks of being old. He's won a hundred grand by the end of the first day, and as he lies in his hotel bed that night staring at the ceiling, he's just congratulating himself over and over. Thinking of what he could do with that kind of money, how much of it he's going to just pack away in the walls of the Shack, how much more he still might win…

He turns his head to the side, and immediately regrets the movement when his eyes fall on the stack of notebooks rising out of his suitcase across the room. He knows what's at the bottom, and he has purposely avoided touching it since he arrived in this room. He turns his face upwards again, but the thought has entered his mind, and there's no banishing it now.

What if a fuse blows or something while he's gone and by the time he gets back it's irreparable? What if there's a storm and some leak develops in the ceiling and rainwater gets all over the machinery? What if there's an _earthquake_ and—

 _Don't worry about that, you moron. You know what's actually worth worrying about? The fact that Mabel, your twelve-year-old niece Mabel, is in charge of the business you built yourself. You've seen how good she is at destroying things. Usually she does it on purpose, but still. You're going to come back home to a mound of burning wood and half-baked excuses, and… and…_

The image of a destroyed Shack, however ridiculous it may be, settles into his mind and won't go away. Amidst the ashes he can discern jagged, rusty hunks of metal, forming a suspiciously triangular shape.

Stan clutches the sheets to his chest, screwing his eyes shut, taking deep, regulated breaths. Slowly the mental image begins to fade away, but he can still hear the crackling of fire, the splintering of wood, the clang of metal on metal.

He throws off his blanket, crosses the room, pulls Journal 1 from his suitcase, and returns to bed, clutching it to his chest. His fingers itch to open it up, his eyes itch to start reading, but he forces himself to just hold it close, keeping it as a reminder that the portal's intact, the Shack's still standing, and Stanford, wherever he is, is fine. In an effort to prove to himself the uselessness of actually reading the journal, he begins a mental recitation of its contents, starting from the very beginning. He falls asleep somewhere between pages fifteen and twenty.

He sleeps a bit better the next night, and the one after that, but by the time he returns to the Shack, having lost _everything_ he's earned from three days of constant interruptions and general rudeness, he's about ready to collapse from relief.

* * *

Gideon's crossed the line this time.

He's never really worried about the kid before. He's never considered needing more than a bit of vigilance and a broom to take care of any trouble he tried to stir up. Now here he is, Stan Pines, living in his handyman's grandmother's house. No home of his own, not a dollar to his name, and two kids he's supposed to be taking care of who, bless their weird little hearts, seem to be doing all right with the whole situation.

All because of a ten-year-old child who uses more moisturizer than most grown women Stan knows.

He _knows_ there's something he's missing. Something that happened while he was asleep. He's gotta admit, it was a strange nap—his dreams consisted of random snatches of long-buried memories and two brightly-colored young men, and he woke up with the strangest headache, almost like… he'd been thinking too much. Or something. However he wanted to describe it, something definitely felt off in his head. Not to mention the fact that Dipper, Mabel, and Soos were sprawled on the floor, appearing to be just climbing to consciousness as he was.

He was completely bewildered, and he asked questions that never got answered, because it was less than a minute later that a wrecking ball came crashing through his living room wall with Gideon at its helm. And then it suddenly became clear that the kids and Soos _couldn't_ have been sleeping, because they were talking about something that could only have happened while he was out—some conflict with somebody named Bill. Probably an associate of Gideon, but not one Stan's ever encountered before.

Something sure happened while he was napping, but he figures it's not important. Not now. There isn't any time to waste talking about it—if he can't figure something out soon…

Dipper and Mabel's parents call that night. Of all the rotten timing. For about two seconds after he realizes who he's talking to he entertains the idea of flat out lying about the situation and claiming nothing out of the ordinary has happened recently, but then they're talking about how they checked the Gravity Falls papers and saw an article about the repossession and ongoing repurposing of the Mystery Shack, and he's glad they spoke first, because if he'd launched into a lie that would have gotten awkward. Instead he… "exaggerates" the "good qualities" of their current living arrangements and carefully avoids mentioning that as of just a couple days ago he's pretty much destitute.

As he hangs up, he thanks his lucky stars that they didn't press the issue or even ask to talk to the kids. They trust him too much.

Everyone does.

Stanford did.

"Grunkle Stan," Mabel's voice carries in from the living room, "can we order pizza?"

He knows what the result will be before he does it, but out of desperation he turns his pockets inside out. A couple of crumbs fall to the floor. He drops the pieces of fabric without even returning them to their proper positions, letting out a sigh.

This isn't a pair of magic money pants, and the kids aren't getting pizza tonight.

They don't know how bad it is. He's artfully avoided letting it show, managing to hide it every time they try to ask questions. Just like he's hidden just about everything else in his life. Those ten years he spent traveling from state to state, breaking the law every time he turned a corner… nobody knows what he was up to. Not even Stanford really knew. And the kids are sure never going to find out, if he's got anything to say about it. Not even when—if— _when_ their other great uncle comes back from oblivion.

As ever, everything inside him flinches at the thought, and he tries to circle back to the money. But this time, there's nothing to land on. He's got no mortgage to pay, no shop to manage, no shipments to order, no…

No portal to check.

Gideon is going to _destroy the Shack_ , and he's going to _find the portal_ , and who knows what that pig child is going to do once he does—probably smash it out of spite, or even worse… tell people about it.

Stan stands there gripping the counter tightly, trying for all he's worth to hold it together. He doesn't even have the journal. It's still in the basement. If after all this he loses the one puzzle piece he did have—

He has to do something. This is more personal than Gideon realizes, and he has no idea who he's messing with. If Stanley Pines the high school dropout could teach himself interdimensional physics, he can sure as heck get his Shack back from a stupid fake psychic kid whose hair is bigger than his head.

This is his fight. His and Gideon's. If he has no money or means to take care of himself, that's one thing, but the kids don't deserve to suffer for it.

He's so sick of being separated from his family. But this time, it's for the best.

* * *

He doesn't believe it.

He can't believe it.

He _won't_ believe it—

He has to. It's real.

After thirty years, _thirty years_ of fruitless searching and soul-crushing guilt and loneliness and frustration and secrets and lies, in the _same day_ , the two remaining pieces of the puzzle have fallen into his lap.

Stan had trouble keeping it cool when he grabbed Journal 2 along with the deed to his property earlier in the day, but when Dipper showed him Journal 3 and didn't even put up a fight as he walked away with it… as soon as he was out of earshot of the kids he fell to his knees. They just wouldn't support him anymore. His forced laughter died down until it became ragged inhalations, and he sat on his feet on the floor of the Shack, hugging that stupid book to his chest, hoping he wouldn't have a heart attack when he was suddenly so close to achieving what he'd built thirty years of his life around.

Dipper. Dipper and Mabel. He swears those kids reminded him what a human being looks like—after all this time never speaking to anyone more than he had to, he almost forgot. That people can be caring, can be good, can be _curious_ , curious enough to find in one summer what he spent half his life failing to locate. What's their secret? How and where did they find it? Doesn't matter—now he has it, and he needs to lie low and avoid Dipper until he can make a copy of it.

He tries to climb to his feet, and has more trouble than he expected. The world is spinning around him and it refuses to right itself. His mouth is dry and his knees are weak. He has to lean against the wall for support as he heads to his bedroom, and for the first time it occurs to him to wonder whether this is really happening. There's no way it could be, right? It's too good to be true. He's dreaming, that's it. Maybe a fairy was playing near his head last night, he's pretty sure he read in Journal 1 that they can affect dreams—

He tucks the journal under his arm and pinches himself forcefully in the back of his hand, giving the extra skin a sharp twist for good measure. Pain results, very real pain, and when he lets go of his skin he sees a small red welt already forming.

Though his eyes are dry, he rubs at them roughly as he enters his bedroom, closing and locking the door behind him. Journal 2 is still in its temporary hiding place under the magazines in his middle drawer. He didn't even get a chance to bring it down to the basement before Journal 3 presented itself to him.

It's all so unreal, and yet this is how it's happened.

Stan places both journals on his bed and turns them to the pages that display the blueprints for the portal. They line up perfectly, and immediately he can see how his own journal would fit into place, and he sucks in a breath as he stands over his bed, staring at the very things he's been searching for for what feels like an eternity. Only a few hours separate him from bringing it all together, and after that… how much longer could it possibly take to get the portal up and running? A few weeks?

Suddenly he finds himself on his knees again. He's not sure how that happened.

 _Dipper and Mabel might get to meet their Grunkle Stanford before they leave for the summer._

He's got to keep guarding the secret, of course. If anyone were to find out now, the chances of being stopped are through the roof. He'll never be able to explain this if he doesn't have results to go with it. He has to see it through to the end. There will be more parts and materials he'll have to steal in the dead of night, more excuses he'll have to make… Yes, it has to stay hidden for now, but all of a sudden, there's an end in sight where there never was before.

He's come this far.

 _Nothing_ is going to keep him from success.

* * *

The next few weeks are utter chaos.

Stan isn't able to hold onto his façade of ignorance for much longer. When Dipper goes and not only tries to get the US government involved in his own amateurish hunt for answers, but _raises the dead from the bowels of the earth_ and puts everyone at the party in danger, it's clear that the time has come to step in. He doesn't know what spurred him to check on things upstairs, but when he steps out of the vending machine into a gift shop that should have been empty but instead is filled with reanimated corpses… well, to say he is immediately glad would be a bit dramatic. But the first image that pops into his mind is of Dipper and Mabel, and armed with a baseball bat he grabs out of the bucket in the corner of the shop and the brass knuckles he illegally carries on his person ninety percent of the time, he tears his way through the undead mob until he locates the kids.

He makes Dipper make him a promise that day, because he does believe that the third journal will be able to help him and his sister stay safe just as much as the first one has helped him for all these years, but it's clear very soon that the boy is… well, incorrigible, to put it mildly.

He knows the kids are off doing dangerous things, playing with whatever creepy supernatural weirdness they can find. He's not an idiot—when the kids go off with Soos and Wendy into the forest under the pretense of "hanging out" and come back with scrapes and bruises and a lame story about a large woodpecker, he's not fooled. And the night he has to drive Dipper to the hospital after his and Mabel's onstage brawl and tries to interrogate them on the nature of it, the halfhearted excuses they produce don't convince him in the slightest. In general, he doesn't know where the kids are a good portion of the time, and he knows they're out looking for trouble, doing _exactly_ what he told them not to do. Dipper hasn't proven himself to be particularly trustworthy—but then, Stan's not much of a role model in that regard.

He knows they're putting themselves in danger. He's well aware. But it's something he finds that he forgets very easily—because every day there's something new to be done in the basement, and he hasn't been able to make progress like this in such a long time. He sleeps so little that when Wendy suggests he get rid of old Goldie, he finds himself getting genuinely emotional about a piece of junk he's never really cared about before. That same week, he's convinced that stealing an animatronic badger is the best course of action, and he doesn't even realize until later how completely blown out of proportion the entire thing was. He's running on coffee and occasionally Mabel Juice, and pretending to be fine under circumstances like this is something he got good at in the years he was constantly studying physics and working on the portal by night, and giving tours by day. Sometimes he almost even convinces himself.

But he feels like he's becoming disconnected to the kids. He's always in the basement, they're always out taking unnecessary risks involving the paranormal. When the kids or even Soos come to him with opportunities to be distracted for a few fleeting hours from his endless work and spend a little time with them, he forces himself to take them. Break into a mini-golf course after hours and sit there and wait for Mabel to play two rounds? Heck yeah! Attend that show of Mabel's that's apparently the reason the entire Shack has looked like a bomb went off in a crafts store all week? Heck yeah! Go to that huge music festival and try to get on the good side of the youth of Gravity Falls? Heck yeah!

But when they don't specifically ask for his involvement, he doesn't offer it. He's in the Shack gift shop and among the attractions during the work day and in the kitchen during food time, and that's the only regularity his schedule has anymore. He'd probably eat most of his meals in the basement if he were alone this summer, but he figures he has to be available to the kids in case they need him. He doesn't think he's successfully watched any TV since he got the other two journals; he's far too busy, and the one or two times he tried, he ended up falling asleep in his recliner before he even settled on a channel. Anyway, he's invariably downstairs between the hours of 10 PM and 2 AM, and typically he retires to his bed around 2:30, being careful not to wake the kids as he tiptoes across the creaky floorboards.

In the rare moments when he's purposefully taking a break from the portal and knows the kids are someplace safe, his mind immediately turns towards the Shack. Business has been kind of slow lately, but when the time comes to consider how to improve it, he never has enough energy to come up with anything. His finances have been put on the back burner as of recently.

Every time he realizes that, he experiences a moment of something like panic, and then takes a moment to remind himself that this is the way it's supposed to be. This is just the natural order of things.

Stanford's more important. Stanford was always more important.

Strangely and unexpectedly enough, though, the arrival of the kids has bumped money even farther down the list. He's not sure how he feels about that, because they've taken the place of his safety net, the one thing that's kept him from completely losing his mind these past thirty years. It's something he decided a long time ago that he could care viciously about even though in the grand scheme of things, it didn't really matter. Or at least, that was his thinking when he made that decision. It sounds kind of like blasphemy now, but maybe that's the point.

He can't lose touch with the kids. They're all he has. If—When he manages to pull this off, he'll have Stanford too, but the kids are a given. They're here and now, and he _can't_ lose them.

And that conviction terrifies him.

Some version of him once decided that Stanford and his portal constituted the end all be all of his goals, and money was secondary, and if he lost his money, there would still be Stanford. He had that buffer, and it was safe.

But if he loses the kids, he loses everything.

* * *

 **AN:** _So this took longer than I thought it would, and the next part probably will too. I was outlining each section and every time I finished one, something else popped up that also felt necessary. Took a while to get that vicious cycle under control._


	3. After

**AN** : _Putting the AN at the beginning this time so the ending can be an ending._

 _I had a moment there where I thought I might continue to a fourth part, but you know what, this has turned into such a general and long-winded analysis of Stan's character that I really need to just put a lid on it. If you like the way I write Stan, be on the lookout for more fics from me, probably centering on Weirdmageddon and what came after._

 _This whole adventure has been ridiculously fun. I think I rambled a lot, but that was kind of the point. There is just so much to discuss about Stan's character, so I went all out. And having written it, I gotta say I appreciate him even more now._

 _In addition to being fun, this turned into a waaay bigger project than I intended, so remember to drop a review on your way out; it would be much appreciated. Thanks for reading!_

* * *

Stan always thought that the first night after he succeeded would be the best sleep of his life. In the times when it was approaching opening time, when the sun was well into its climb and the birds were chirping and he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep, he'd often just picture what it would be like when all his work was done. Stanford would step through the portal, and maybe he'd be worse for the wear, but Stan would patch him up and say he was sorry and it would all be all right. And maybe Stanford would forgive him on the spot, and maybe he wouldn't. But Stanley would know that he'd done it, he'd successfully brought his brother back home, and they could be together again, like they should have been these past forty years. Things wouldn't be perfect, but for the first time in a long time they'd be looking up, and that night Stan would rest on the first true and worthwhile achievement of his life.

He thought their conversation would be difficult, but by the end of it they'd be caught in a tearful embrace, unable to speak anymore. He thought Stanford would still be angry, but he'd be so glad to be back that his resentment would be put on hold for at least a few hours. He thought when Stanford saw for himself the repairs he'd made to the machine and learned about the business he'd built from scratch, he'd be impressed and proud. He thought that seeing all that he'd sacrificed for three decades of his life would cancel out at least _some_ of Stanford's righteous anger. He thought even though he deserved that anger and more, Stanford wouldn't be able to help but to be grateful too, and he'd _earned_ that gratitude. He thought by the end of his brother's first day back, even though things would still be seriously messed up, there would be some new understanding between them. They'd be on the road to healing.

Instead… his cheek is still a little sore from where Stanford's— _Ford's, when the heck did he decide to go by that name_ —fist connected with it. The heavy silence after his own words "You really aren't going to thank me, are you?" still echoes in his ears. And all he seems able to think about is what on _earth_ he's going to do after the summer's up.

He's going to lose the Shack.

Stanford isn't grateful.

This was all his fault, his responsibility; Stanford doesn't _need_ to be grateful.

Stanford isn't even _happy_.

Stanford wants his house back.

He's going to lose the Shack.

He's going to lose the Shack.

He's going to lose the Shack.

Stanley tries to sleep, tries for all he's worth. He tries to congratulate himself for saving his brother. He tries to tell himself that it's not Ford saying the words "Thank you" that redeems him, it's the actual act of saving him. He tries to think about the trust returning to Dipper's eyes after he realized what was really going on, and the faith that never really left Mabel's.

That last thought is the only one that's of any comfort at all.

Does it make him a bad man that despite knowing for sure for the first time in four decades that his brother is out of danger, there's still a weight in his chest that he can't shake? It's a different kind of weight, and the change is a welcome one—before, it was the not knowing that was slowly killing him. The guilt, the uncertainty. The shame of having caused a problem at great cost to his brother and being unable to fix it. The constant feeling of worthlessness. The knowledge that all his efforts could be in vain, that Stanford—Ford—could have died alone and afraid a long time ago.

Now, he knows. His brother, his twin, his other half, is safe and sound a floor below him. He even seems to be all right psychologically, and that's something Stan has tried to keep from worrying about on multiple occasions too—he has no idea what Ford has had to deal with for all this time, but he's always assumed it to be something terrible. A world of monsters and demons and shadows. He would often see his brother in his dreams, running from towering beings of pure darkness, but find himself completely paralyzed, unable even to call his name.

Ford is okay.

But the weight in Stan's gut is still there like a physical force pulling at his insides. Because even if his brother is okay, _they_ certainly aren't.

Was it foolish to hope that they might be on the road to recovery this early in the game? Maybe it was. Maybe all this should have been completely within the realm of anticipation. Maybe Ford just needs some time. Maybe they can talk it out once they've both gotten a decent night's sleep.

Stan turns on his side, eyes wide open. He knows this is going to take more than a heartfelt conversation to fix. He doesn't know what, just that it won't be easy. But long odds are what he's been working with ever since Ford disappeared into that bluish light, and nobody knew about this in all that time; he had no support system, not even within himself. For almost thirty years he _knew_ he couldn't do it, but it was something he was never able to acknowledge until the very moment he proved himself wrong. And still he managed it.

They can get through this.

It's been a long and emotionally exhausting day, and he didn't sleep at all last night. He took a short nap in the early evening and then got to work planning and executing his scheme to acquire all the radioactive waste he would need to power the portal. He didn't get to take the nap he wanted to in the afternoon because the FBI showed up at their door before 9 AM. He spent several hours sitting in a locked room handcuffed to a chair being drilled with questions, trying his best to keep up a constant façade of ignorance and innocence, but it was a façade that had never undergone such scrutiny before and it nearly broke under the pressure on multiple occasions. He _ran_ for longer than he'd ever run, as if the devil himself was behind him, from the FBI base straight to the Shack, his heart pounding with exertion and utter terror, and he thought the entire way that it was the most scared he'd ever been. Sure he'd commissioned Soos to protect the vending machine, but what if he was overwhelmed? What if something went wrong with the portal? What if everything worked perfectly, but Stanford didn't come through? What if Stanford _did_ come through, but he was all alone, and he needed help? Stan had no way of knowing what was happening and there was that uncertainty again, rapidly destroying him from the inside like a flame burning a sheet of paper, giving him physical heartache that he couldn't begin to control.

He revised his guess when he skidded into the gift shop and saw the vending machine off to the side, the door ajar, the chasm into the staircase yawning wide open, and nobody in sight. His heart just about stopped, and he saw nothing but stars. But it lasted only a second, and it wasn't even a second he had to spare. And then he was tearing his way downstairs, with every step in terrible danger of crashing headlong down the stairs, but he made it, and sped down the hall, his brain on overdrive but not really processing any thoughts except for how scared he was. Waiting in the slowly descending elevator was one of the purest forms of torture he had ever encountered. He paced in tiny circles the whole way down, unable to keep still. When the doors opened, he nearly tripped as he flew forward, past all his brother's machines, and tore towards the largest space in the Shack, the area that held the portal.

The scene he found himself in at the end of that final mad dash gave his previous two most frightening moments of his life a run for their money. That was the moment he discovered a new kind of fear aside from uncertainty, and far worse. For the next two minutes he was in constant terror as he imagined a world in which everyone he loved betrayed each other, and _everyone_ suffered for it, but somehow he was the reason behind every action taken. _He_ shoved Stanford into the portal, _he_ let the kids come here, _he_ didn't protect them from the truth, _he_ didn't explain the situation to them… If Dipper brought his hand down on that button, he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to look at his nephew again. Stanford would still be gone, and no way did Stan have another thirty years in him. The family would break apart more profoundly than Stan's darkest dreams could envision, he would distance himself from the kids, and he would lose himself to the darkness that had been dancing around the edges of his mind since 1982.

He's running on no rest, and today alone he's been taken in by the FBI, run a distance of at least a few miles without stopping, experienced all manners of intense emotions, and recounted the story of basically his entire life.

He should be dead asleep by now.

But the predominant emotion of the day has been fear, and he has found, in his various scares while working on the portal and near-constant thirty-year fear of failure, that when true fright has such prolonged presence in a person's heart, it becomes very difficult to shake.

Stan wishes he could stop his endless mental listing of all the things he should be afraid of. He wishes he could focus on the things he's struck off that list today. But he has evolved into a man with a tendency to ignore the past and look to the future, out of necessity. And his future is not looking at all like what he would hope.

He's going to lose the Shack.

He's going to lose everything—

 _No, Stan_ , he tells himself. _Stop being so dramatic._ And he grimaces, because his being on the cusp of losing everything is not a far cry from the truth, but it's far enough that he can't claim it fairly.

He'll lose his source of revenue, yes. He'll have to save as much money as he possibly can in the coming weeks if he is to have any hope of surviving—he cannot live on the road again. In fact he feels a bit faint at the very thought, and it's a good thing he's lying in bed. Yes, he'll lose his business, and the way things are going, he'll probably lose his brother too—though not nearly as profoundly as he did that snowy day a lifetime ago. But recently something else has entered his life, something else worth caring about, and he thanks God in heaven that he has that to hold onto.

The kids. He'll still have the kids.

It is carried on this thought that Stan finally finds his way to a dreamless sleep.

* * *

When he wakes up late the following morning, it feels like something's missing.

It's a feeling of deep emptiness that cuts him to the core and it's absurd how much it affects him, because he _knows_ what's missing—the thing that was always in the back of his mind before is now a non-issue. His brother is back home. The portal, as far as its utility to Stan, is obsolete.

If he had managed to find success even ten years into his efforts, he would have said _good riddance_ to the portal and the physics and the ciphers and never set foot into that basement again. He would have been happy to forget all of it and get on with his life and help Ford to rebuild his. He would have seen it as a decade well spent but in the past, and looked to the future. Now… Now it's taken up so much of his life that it _became_ his life. It's what his mind automatically turns to in idle moments, the goal he's constantly worked towards, the most important facet of his simple life.

He doesn't know how he's going to let it go.

He hasn't even finished shaving in front of the mirror before he's come to the conclusion that, with the recent closure of his standing mission, Operation Save Stanford, he needs to lose his preoccupation with it as quickly as possible and devote his undivided attention and care to his money. Not even his business, because he'll be losing that in a matter of weeks, but his money. If he has to commit more burglebezzlement, so be it. If he spends every waking moment thinking about the green stuff, so be it. If he cares about money and only money, there's less chance for hurt. There's less emptiness.

At least that's the theory.

It's a solution, but it's a solution that scares him half to death, because it's not working towards anything in particular. It's just survival. It's a decision that he would have to make every single day for the rest of his life, and the only goal involved is to keep himself from losing his mind. Which has always been at least a minor concern, but… he doesn't want to promote it to his main goal. Stanford's back, who cares about sanity?

Then again, if _he_ doesn't care about his sanity, he doesn't really know who else will.

He pulls his bathrobe on and descends the stairs, quite ready to tear into some breakfast and forget about the world for a little while. As he passes the clock in the hallway, it registers with him that the gift shop was supposed to be opened almost an hour ago. It's the first occasion he's ever failed to do so on time.

It can wait a bit longer. Just until he gets something to eat.

He stops just outside the kitchen, and stands there listening for a moment. Two voices drift from inside, exchanging words in low tones. He can't decipher any of what is being said; all he's able to determine is that neither voice belongs to his brother. And that's enough for him.

Stan enters the kitchen, and Dipper and Mabel are sitting at the table, suddenly silent, watching him with attentive eyes. He pauses at the door, a thought suddenly occurring to him. "Kids," he says. "Are you hungry? Have you gotten anything to eat?"

"We had breakfast a couple hours ago," Mabel answers, not taking her eyes off him. "Dipper made toast and I made bacon. We saved some for you but you didn't come down so we put the bacon in the fridge and ate the toast. I'll make some more if you want; I cut the slices in the shape of kittens."

"That's okay, sweetie," Stan says, heading for the fridge and pulling it open. He quickly locates the Ziploc bag positively stuffed with bacon slices and a smile springs immediately to his lips in anticipation of the simple pleasure.

"Ford came out of the basement to have some, though," Dipper continues carefully. Stan's movements slow. The bag snaps open. He doesn't turn around. "Did he spend the night down there?" the boy asks.

Stan suppresses a sigh as he starts gathering materials to make a sandwich and places them on the counter next to the fridge. "I don't know," he admits. "I mean, probably not. He had to have been tired." He braces himself, smoothing out his expression, and finally turns around to face them.

The kids are exchanging glances just as he turns, but soon enough their eyes are back on him, large and concerned. "Are you two… okay?" Mabel asks, unmasked worry in her tone.

This time a sigh does escape him. He tries to keep in mind the promise he made himself at the beginning of the summer, that he would be honest with the kids about as much as he could. Now everything's out in the open; he has no reason to hold anything back. "There's a lot of… stuff we have to work through," he finds himself saying.

The kids obviously know what this vague reply means. Mabel knits her eyebrows together, and Dipper looks down at the tabletop.

"Hey," Stan says, pushing the refrigerator door shut and stepping towards them. "Don't you kids worry about me and Ford. We'll figure it out. Just… have fun and be safe, and leave the rest to us." They still look uncertain, particularly Mabel. He searches for something more helpful to say, and settles on a tactic that he's used on himself many times in the past: distraction. "I'm sure you noticed I caught up on sleep last night; how's about you go open up the gift shop? Wendy's not coming in till 1:30 and I need somebody to work the register."

The two of them compliantly slide down from their chairs and head for the door. Stan's shoulders sag automatically; he didn't even realize he was holding them up before.

He returns to the sandwich building process, and as he does, he decides he's going to relieve whichever of them is working the register as soon as he's fed and dressed himself. Stroking some bills sounds really nice right about now.

* * *

He never does quite make the decision to give himself over to the money. He can't take that step. The kids are here as a constant reminder that there is more to life, and when he looks at them or even thinks of them, that awareness is refreshed in his mind. Money doesn't matter.

So it's doubly terrifying that he can't stop caring about it.

Within two days it's crystal clear to him that making that "plan" that first morning was a desperate bid to show himself that he still has some semblance of control over this ridiculous relationship with the stuff. Additionally, it is very obvious that he, in fact, has no control at all. It's snuck its way into his emotions—rather, he opened his doors wide open and _let_ it in, with his deal with the devil several years ago. And it's too late to back out.

Fine, he tells himself. Fine. There's no problem here. He doesn't even have an expensive secret ongoing project to factor into his monthly budget anymore. If it makes him feel good, why should he concern himself with trying to stop it?

That's the question he asks himself every time his thought process goes far enough to need rationalization, and he doesn't let it come to that often, and when it does, he never attempts to find an answer to the question. He just lets it hang in his mind until some distraction pushes it off to the side again, where it fades and fades until the next time he needs it.

For the first few days, none of them see much of Ford. At the end of day one, when he hasn't surfaced at all, Stan descends to the basement to ask what he's working on. As soon as he locates Ford in a remote corner of the basement, rummaging through his vast collection of microscope slides, and makes his presence known, Ford whirls around, eyes wide and hand on his belt. Stan just thanks God that he didn't actually draw a weapon, and says, "Easy there, Poindexter. It's just me."

"What are you doing down here, Stanley?" Ford asks immediately, seeming to force his shoulders to relax.

"Stanford, you've been down here all day. I wanted to know what you were working on."

"I've been trying to minimize the damage you caused by opening the portal," Ford replies readily, in a tone that Stan wouldn't quite call _hateful_ , but would at least go as far as _pointed_.

"Yeah," he says sourly, "you told me as much yesterday. In case your big brain wasn't able to make the connection before, I had to work through a lot of your scientific gobblygook in order to pull that off, so you could be a little more specific."

Ford is silent for a few seconds, staring at Stan with guarded eyes. It makes Stan a little uneasy to find so little trust in them. "No, I can't," he finally whispers. "I don't know yet."

"Okay," Stan says uncertainly. "Any ideas? What have you been looking at?"

"Stanley…" Ford says, suddenly sounding tired and just a touch desperate, "please. You don't need to know. Just let me work and I'll take care of it."

"And why the heck _shouldn't_ I know?" Stan demands, face flushed with anger. "It's my universe too!"

"You didn't seem to mind putting it and others like it in grave risk just yesterday!" Ford returns, his voice only a mite more controlled than Stan's. As soon as the words are out he sucks in a breath and closes his eyes for a moment, appearing to be trying to calm down.

Even for a few seconds after he opens them again, Stan stares at him, searching his face, but his brother remains completely closed off. His expression betrays nothing. Ford gazes back at him, daring him to ask again, clearly not about to impart a single piece of information.

"Don't you trust me at all?" Stan hears himself whisper, and instantly wishes he could take the words back.

But they're out here, and Ford is staring at him, clearly contemplating how to respond, and regret rushes through Stan in what comes close to physical sensation, and Ford finally just says, "I know you mean well."

Stan blinks. He definitely expected worse. But the answer is still quite a ways away from encouraging.

"Please, Stanley," Ford says pleadingly. "You've done enough already. Please just go."

At this, his brother turns his back again, returning his attention to the slides on the shelf before him, and it's clearly a dismissal. Stan is still for a moment, registering the words. As he compliantly heads back to the elevator, they just bounce around his brain: _You've done enough already. You've done enough already. You've done enough already._

The way things are going, it's probably as close to thanks as he's going to get.

As he stands in the elevator, he clenches both fists. He sees exactly what his brother is trying to do, and it's not going to work on him. That measly acknowledgement of everything he's sacrificed these years and years of his life is not going to cut it. It's not going to pacify him enough to think it's okay to just leave Ford to his own devices. He'll get his answers. At the very least, he's going to be paying attention.

Stan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, as he steps through the elevator doors. He suddenly resolves to mark up some prices in the gift shop by a few bucks at least. He should probably do it now, so he doesn't forget in the morning.

He pushes the vending machine aside, and Dipper and Mabel leap back. Dipper's usual vest is gone and Mabel has her nightgown on. They're clearly ready for bed, but by their sudden silence and location, it's also quite clear what they were doing instead.

He automatically asks, "Why aren't you two in bed?" And realizing that he's already worked out the answer to that himself, he asks without giving them time to respond, "What did I just tell you kids today?"

"Stan…" Dipper starts, and Stan knows that whatever follows is gonna be a question, so he says, "No. I told you not to worry about all this. Now go to bed."

"Stan, please, just—"

"Did I _stutter?_ " Stan demands, voice rising, and they both immediately put their heads down and scurry towards the stairs. Stan is left standing in the empty gift shop, and he knows that marking up the prices isn't going to quite cover it as far as distracting him.

He needs to get back on the pug trafficking scene.

* * *

For the next two days Ford shows up at mealtime and stays in the kitchen for a maximum of ten minutes before bringing the rest of his food back down to the basement. Half the time it's during a family meal, and on only one such occasion does Stan invite him to sit down and have a few bites with him and the kids. He accepts, though he doesn't say much as they eat. Then again, none of them does. Dipper spends the entire time staring at Ford, a thousand questions dancing in his eyes, and Mabel just keeps looking over at Stan, but he's got his eyes on his plate as much as possible. After fifteen minutes of this, Ford excuses himself, and the kids disperse shortly after. Stan resolves never to extend such an invitation again if he can help it.

The third morning is when some ungodly force drives Ford to appear in the gift shop with a one-eyed tentacled creature the size of a large housecat clinging to his arm. Stan knows immediately after he fries the thing that the smell will be driving away visitors well into the afternoon, and he urges his brother to return to his lab, which Ford does, with the infuriatingly dignified air of someone who had no intention of sticking around anyway.

And then Dipper is trying to go down with him, and man oh man this is exactly what Stan's been afraid of. That kid is sticking his nose where it doesn't belong and if Ford is involved, he's probably going to lose it, and likely a lot more.

Stan tries to warn him. It's obvious that his attempts to dissuade the kid are entirely unsuccessful, and later that same week he finds himself standing in the living room with Mabel and one of her friends, staring out a gaping hole in the wall through which an obnoxious wizard and his henchmen spirited away his brother and great nephew to eat their brains.

This is _precisely_ the kind of thing he tried to warn Dipper about.

Except, he realizes as they walk through the woods, it wasn't just Ford's spooky otherworldly game piece or whatever the heck that was that got them into this mess— _he_ was the one who threw it. It should have been a bag of perfectly mundane, safe pieces of plastic, but instead it's put two lives on the line, and two lives that happen to matter very much to him. And it's not the first time something like this has happened.

They're a dangerous combination, he and Ford. Ford creates and gathers together incredible pieces of technology and marvels of science that, while amazing, are very dangerous, and then Stan is stupid enough to do the absolute _worst_ he could do with that technology that ends up endangering the people he cares about most.

Any idiot can do damage on accident, but the outrageously high intelligence and endless resources of his brother just exacerbate the problem. And he clearly hasn't learned a thing about caution or prevention—he must be a special brand of moron.

They do manage to save Dipper and Ford before even the tiniest nibble is taken out of either of their brains—and Stan would still say that's something of a pity in Ford's case, but he figures this way he can allow himself to just pretend the whole episode never happened. He makes up for this particular failure by doing what he does best. It serves as a reminder to be infinitely careful when within ten feet of Ford, and beyond that, he can forget the guilt of it.

But there's one other thing the fiasco proves to him: Dipper and Ford are more similar than he realized. It's a thought that at first he finds a bit terrifying, but he reminds himself that Dipper is, in fact, just a kid, and he has his uncles' mistakes to learn from. That is a distinct advantage, and maybe the only good thing that comes out of the toxins they seem to produce when they're together.

Dipper's been searching for answers all summer. Stan doesn't know if he trusts Ford to make sure he's safe, but he can see that his brother will at least try his hardest. The kid deserves to spend some time with the author.

The two of them spend a lot of time together in the week or so that follows. Stan tells himself he doesn't care, and it's very close to being true. He still has Mabel, who comes to him a lot when her brother is playing Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons with his, or off in the forest cataloguing some creature. Before the week is out they manage to watch about eight movies, put together five new attractions, and go bowling. Stan enjoys spending time with her, and it only gets awkward in the odd silence here and there when they both know that the other is wishing that things could be different.

It hurts his heart to think she might ever be in a situation similar to his, and he sends up a silent prayer that that never comes to pass.

* * *

It's around the end of that week that Mayor Befufftlefumpter dies.

Stan knows that if this had happened back when he was still calling himself Stanford Pines, he wouldn't have given it a second thought, and actually running wouldn't have crossed his wildest dreams. He would either be far too busy working on the portal, or know that he had to be open to becoming far too busy, depending on whether he had all the journals.

But it's something more than that that compels him to throw his fez into the ring.

It's Ford.

Not that his brother has exactly been a fount of encouragement—in fact, quite the opposite. If the guy were a little less oblivious to the people around him and the kids were a little older, it would be more than obvious to his entire family what his presence and successes have been doing to Stan. But even more, something has been missing from his life ever since Ford reappeared in it. It wasn't supposed to be like that. Ford was supposed to be something _more_. But his brother spends most of the time in his lab, appearing periodically to show Stan up and quickly withdraw back to the basement, and because of him, Stan barely sees his great nephew anymore.

It's not anything like how he thought it would be. Seems like nothing ever is.

Ford's presence has brought an emptiness to Stan's life that he doesn't know how to rectify, but this whole mayoral gig would certainly, at the very least, provide a distraction. And at the most, it would give people a different picture of him. Something to remember him as that goes a little further than the local sheister who runs a tourist trap and regularly offends people both on and off the clock. The kids have taken to Ford a lot more quickly than they did him, and maybe if he makes a name for himself, even in this tiny town, they'll have more reason to be proud of him. Getting a position like this might even start to make up for everything he's done these past thirty years in secret—the work to which he dedicated practically his whole life that apparently no one is ever going to appreciate.

He tells the kids only about the second part. And he leaves some details out.

His campaign flies by in a way he's never experienced before—he finds that he forgets the most crucial parts of it. Before the debates he blacks out, and finds himself coming abruptly back to awareness when they're through. People are always cheering when he wakes up, and it plants an automatic smile on his face, but it's a confused one. He'll see quotes in the paper that he doesn't remember saying and can't picture himself saying. The kids seem especially excited about his success, and he supposes the quotes do match up with the simple, crowd-pleasing ideals they're encouraging him to push, but the blackouts scare him more than he lets on. Is this just a symptom of getting old? Is he experiencing dissociative episodes? Should he be seeing a doctor?

Probably. But this conclusion has never led him to actually set up an appointment, regardless of how many times he's come to it in his life.

As ever, he chooses to ignore the issue, and focus on the end goal—which is looking incredibly achievable, considering the amount of competition he started out with. It's something he couldn't avoid thinking about if he wanted to, because his face is everywhere, on signs and in the newspaper, and every time he leaves the house he encounters somebody new greeting and congratulating him.

He's still experiencing these successes under Stanford's name. That kind of steams him, if he's honest. But he can look past it—the people who matter the most here know who he really is. The town will find out eventually.

The constancy of the reminders of what he's achieved so far is enough that sometimes he just lapses into a wide grin without realizing it, and then he starts getting even more comments on how happy he looks all the time. He's gotta say, it's encouraging to hear positive feedback for something he can actually remember.

Mabel and Dipper are excited and supportive, and just thinking about them makes him smile as of recently. The interviews and debates and just generally more enjoyable walks in public have been spectacularly helpful with filling up the time he used to spend on the portal. Part of him expects Ford to show up to run against him at some point, but it never happens; he hardly even sees his brother. Does the guy even know he's running? Stan decides he doesn't particularly care. The kids are proud of him and he doesn't even have to default to money to feel good; he's tasting success, and he'll take a full helping if he has anything to say about it. For once he didn't get his start from an empty house or identity theft or petty crime—this is his own. And there comes a point when he has every confidence that he's going to be able to see it through to the end.

Then the other shoe drops. Stan's gotten soft; he failed to expect that this time around.

A mind control necktie, supplied by Ford, because _of course_. Mabel seems apologetic and Dipper is obviously frustrated, and he honestly doesn't know which is worse. It was the only way to win, Stan. We had to, Stan. You weren't good enough, Stan.

 _I get it, universe. You can stop pounding me over the head with it._

Some part of him, the part that still stubbornly clings to his pride with the conviction that if it does, one day he might be able to just freaking be good enough, urges him to go to the final debate as himself. Tells him that he can still do this. It won't be entirely his own success, because the kids did get him this far even if it was against his will, but he'll still be proving to them that he is more than they think he is.

At least he has an answer for the blackouts now.

He shows up at the Friday debate in his regular old Mr. Mystery getup, and as he stands before the crowd, he quickly realizes that he's never actually done this before. Sure, he's spoken in front of crowds plenty of times, but this time his sole purpose is to get them to like him. It's an extreme switch from his usual deal and he's not sure how he's going to swing it.

When the kids send in Soos wearing the tie that's spent most of the week around Stan's neck, that certainly doesn't help.

He's trying, he really is, but the only two ways he knows how to speak are blunt and honest ( _Lord help me, I've become my father_ ), and dancing nimbly around a major truth that no one can ever know about. Setting two used to see plenty of action, but it is now moot. And setting one doesn't seem to be doing him much good at the moment.

As his approval ratings drop lower and lower, so does his anger and tension. By the time the chart hits zero, he just wants to go home. It was wrong of the kids to use that tie, and he's gotta have a serious talk with Ford about this, but they were right about one thing: he could never have gotten this far on his own. It was unreasonable to expect them to believe in him; he doesn't even believe in him.

The realization clears his mind significantly, but it doesn't make him feel a smidge better.

And suddenly two familiar voices tinted with panic and desperation are echoing from above him, and oh God the kids are in danger, and everything erupts into chaos around him or at least seems to, and the blood is roaring in his ears as he makes the final decision to give up on this ridiculous charade of pretending he could do this and go save the only thing in his world that in this moment he's sure is worth saving.

He punches those obnoxious eagles with all the ferocity he can muster and wishes he could do something similar to the people throwing birdseed at him, but he manages to get to the kids just in the nick of time. The brief thought of what would have happened if he'd come just a second later than he had leaves him seeing stars and ready to vomit, but he manages to barrel through this unsteadiness—he has to. The mountain's about to blow up.

There's not even a question of what he has to do. Some part of his brain is well aware that he might be about to leave this mortal coil, but it's the same kind of awareness one has while taking a reckless turn across oncoming traffic and coming this close to a full-on collision. It's muted. And he'll be fine if it stays that way.

He plays the only card he has left, and it's as petty as he's ever been, but he doesn't care. His tombstone's gonna say "Crooked Grifter," there's no way around that. But if he's got anything to say about it, it's gonna be the biggest, tackiest tombstone any crooked grifter ever had. He knows he can trust the kids with that much.

Less than a minute later he's surprised to be alive. It's a feeling he hasn't experienced in a while—he did plenty of times in the ten years he spent on his own, but in his time in Gravity Falls it was reduced to a handful of incidents with the cops, a small explosion or two while working in the basement, and the morning he woke up after the fourth anniversary of Stanford's disappearance. He'd rather not ever have cause to feel this way, but as it happens, the feeling itself is always mostly pleasant. He's gonna live for longer than he thought for a minute there, yippee. Of course, there's also the fact that his knees are shaking too much to support him, and it's a good thing he has the excuse of climbing down a pile of birdseed, which is a situation that would leave most people prone to slipping.

Everyone's cheering and waving their arms around like idiots. Apparently the freedom eagle bestowed its birdly kiss upon him. He must have missed that while he was listening to the blood rushing around his head.

The first thing he does is march straight up to Bud Gleeful, who's lying on the stage, taking deep breaths as he stares at the sky. Stan ignores the strange position as he mentally prepares a short vengeance speech that will ensure the guy gets sent to the big house with his pig son, but then Dipper and Mabel are cutting him off before he can begin, babbling something about Gideon and a screen and how it wasn't Bud's fault.

Stan doesn't understand most of what they're saying, but it sounds like more supernatural voodoo that he wasn't clued in on, and they're clearly adamant. So he says fine, whatever, he needs to take a nap anyway.

The kids fill him in on the drive back to the Shack, he has himself a wonderful nap, and he wakes up just in time to join the kids in a board game before they tune in to watch the local news station for the announcement of the election results. Honestly, the first reaction that springs to mind on hearing of his disqualification is impressment with whomever finally did their job right in order to pull up all this dirt on him. It's probably for the best; he would have been a crap mayor anyway. He got his fifteen minutes of fame with none of the responsibility of actually winning, and that sounds like a pretty good deal to him.

The day's been a real curate's egg, and he's not really sure what he's going to do with the rest of it but he's ready for it to be over. But there's one final surprise left for him.

He stares at the sash in his lap, at the childlike arrangement and colors of the letters but almost professional sewing job, and all he can hear in his head is the phrase they spell, over and over and over.

It's not something he would have thought himself capable of actually believing to be genuine. It's gotta be out of pity, right? He's nobody's hero. He's just an old man who makes a lot of mistakes. But he looks into these kids' eyes and he can see how much they mean it.

And if it's true to them, it's worth being proud of.

He's tearing up gosh darn it, and the kids notice. He tries to brush it off and they let him, and suddenly he's full of energy, ready to squeeze in one more petty crime before the day's out, and beckons the kids to come with him.

As they say, the family that vandalizes together—or something like that—stays together, and that's what he wants most in all this world.

* * *

The next morning, he wakes up around 7:00 from a random body ache like usual, but manages to go back to sleep until ten minutes before opening time. He gives tours till the early afternoon and lets the kids take over afterwards. He grabs a bite to eat while waiting for the gift shop to clear out, and once it's empty, he enters the code into the vending machine and heads straight down to his brother's lab.

"Where are ya, Poindexter?" he calls when he steps into the lab and doesn't see Ford immediately. There is no prompt response, but he can see the faint glow of a lamp at the end of the row of machines that stretches out in front of him.

Once he rounds the corner, he finds Ford sitting at the desk on which Stan spent years and years working through physics textbooks and often falling asleep, studying some kind of rock with a magnifying glass. He sets the tool down immediately and turns to face his brother, but Stan demands before he can speak, "You heard me just now, didn't you? Why didn't you respond?"

Ford shrugs. "You found me more or less immediately, didn't you?"

Stan grits his teeth. "Whatever. Would you care to explain _this?_ " and he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out the red, white, and blue tie, which remains neatly folded as he extends his hand to afford his brother a full view.

Ford stares at the tie. There's no surprise in his expression. Stan can't read it at all, in fact—there's not the slightest twitch around his eyes or mouth or anything. The closest Stan can come to describing it is "mildly thoughtful." Ford looks up to meet his eyes. "Stanley…"

"If whatever you're about to say is an excuse, I don't want to hear it." Ford opens his mouth to speak, but Stan isn't done. "Your morals really went downhill while you were on the other side, didn't they?" he growls. "I may commit massive tax fraud on a regular basis and shoplift every time I step inside a store, but I never made anybody do a thing they didn't want to. What, I ruined your chance at success, so you decide I don't even get one? I was always gonna fail; you couldn't even let me fail on my own terms?"

"Stanley—"

"And you basically hand over my free will to the very people I did all this for? Or wanted to do all this for. I ended up not doing any of it myself. They're _impressionable kids_ , Ford, and I know I'm no role model, but how could you let them do this? You're giving them resources to mess up other people's lives and it's that exact type of thing that landed you in—"

"Stanley!" Ford cuts in forcefully, and he still sounds very patient, and Stan is unreasonably frustrated by this. But Ford's next words, spoken calmly and quietly, completely blindside him: "Dipper told me everything."

Stan blinks. "What?"

Ford's expression hasn't changed. He's still staring fixedly at Stan, focused and practical. "About what you did yesterday," he elaborates. "How you put it all behind you so quickly. How you climbed up that mountain, saved Dipper and Mabel's lives at the risk of your own." Finally the corners of his mouth quirk upward. "He's very proud of you."

Stan stares at his brother. The words fit logically into the situation, and there's no reason to suspect he doesn't mean them honestly, but… somehow they still don't seem to make sense coming from his brother.

"He's actually been telling me lots of stories of their summer here over the past couple weeks," Ford confesses, his eyes wandering to the shelf located directly behind Stan, but he doesn't seem to be seeing it. "Mabel too. She was especially intent on making sure I heard all about how you punched a pterodactyl in the face to save her pet pig. I did enjoy hearing her account of that story."

Stan is having trouble discerning why it's such a challenge for him to find words at the moment. Finally he just growls, "What are you getting at?"

Ford looks back to him, and finally he seems a bit surprised, obviously not having anticipated the question. He probably didn't actually have a point. "Or are you just rambling in your old age?" Stan asks, a hint of jocularity in his tone this time.

Ford's smile is back, and he says, "Just…" Stops. Lets out a tiny sigh, puts on the smile yet again. "The kids love you very much."

By this point, Stan knows exactly what he means. Ford fancies himself too decent to actually say it, but it's obvious.

He's surprised. Surprised Stan was able to inspire such strong and genuine feelings of affection in these wonderful children.

Stan doesn't blame him one bit. He's surprised too.

"I'm sorry, Stanley," Ford says then, and Stan snaps to attention, a new, fresh, and intense brand of surprise suddenly flaring up like an explosion in his mind. "I shouldn't have given those ties to Dipper. I thought it would help, but… well… honestly, I didn't think it through very well. I'm going to partly blame the extreme conditions and moral ambiguity I was immersed in for thirty years, but… that doesn't make what I did right." He looks up, meeting Stan's eyes again. He still speaks in a carefully modulated tone, but Stan can read true regret in his eyes. He recalls the way he used to apologize when they were kids—immediately, guiltily, and repeatedly, sometimes for days afterwards, depending on the severity of his transgression.

A lot changes in thirty years, but he can still read his brother's eyes.

Stan is sick of being at a loss for words, but there it is again. He has no idea what to say. Does he forgive Ford? He's not really sure yet. He wants to, but that means nothing. And this is just one of the many things that's currently comprising the mountain of crap between them.

Settling on the one thing he knows he can express sincerely, he says, "Thank you."

And deciding that these two words might be good things to leave Ford with, he turns around and begins his trek back to the stairs.

* * *

He didn't realize until it was over how fantastic a distraction the election was from his endless internal battle to figure out what he can and should dedicate his thoughts to given the recent success of his standing lifelong mission.

Early the following morning is when he gets his second shipment of pugs, and until pickup in the early afternoon, he's brushing up on his Spanish—particularly the subjunctive, which he was never quite able to get a handle on. But when he's taking a break from endless mental vocabulary listings, and he sees one of the kids, he finds that his automatic response of smiling is still in play. The sash is currently draped over his bedpost, and he's gone to sleep the past two nights staring at it. He swears he was even wearing it in his dreams.

He's thinking of them even as he goes to feed the pugs, which Soos is letting him keep in his break room. When he's done this sort of thing in the past, the basement served as the ideal storage space for live animals and illegal materials, and Ford at least has some inkling of his brother's… activities, but Stan's not about to request the use of his workspace for something like this. He tries to keep the kids downstairs for as much of the day as possible so they don't hear the pugs' constant yapping. He doesn't care so much if they know what he's up to, but since they don't really have anything to offer to the scheme, he'd rather they not get involved, if it can be avoided. Besides, if Mabel actually sees the things, she'll probably want to keep all of them.

Santiago arrives an hour later than he said he would, and by the time he shows up Stan has been sitting on the couch on the front porch for almost thirty minutes. " _Finalmente_ ," Stan cries when his truck pulls up, and immediately heads inside to begin the transport of over seven barrels of pugs from upstairs to the back of Santiago's truck.

"¿Por qué llegas tan tarde?" he asks between the first and second barrel.

"No hay que hablar de eso," the tattooed man answers as he loads the barrel into his truck. "Ay, did you not have a better way of… holding, ehm…" He seems to be searching for a word for a second or two. "Storing these things? I mean… barrels, really?"

Stan always feels a little patronized when they switch to English so early in the conversation, but he understands. "It's what I had on hand. Works well enough for my purposes." As he reenters the house to retrieve the next barrel, he mutters to himself, "My resources in general have gone down recently."

It's a bit ridiculous to be bitter at his brother for such a small thing; sometimes he used tools and even a weapon or two from the basement for his illegal activities, but it was never his right to do that. Using them to work on the portal to bring Ford back was one thing—very close to their intended purpose—but Ford would never have approved of what he's doing now, for example. Then again, Ford doesn't seem to approve of what he did to save him, so his brother can take a hike as far as he's concerned.

He thinks he's just looking for reasons to be upset with Ford at this point. He wants to be angry. He knows it's a dangerous mindset to be in, but it's all he has right now.

Not too much time passes before a voice carries from inside, calling, "Family meeting! Family meeting!" The voice belongs to Ford. Stan doesn't know why he's surprised, but it doesn't really matter. Part of him knows he really ought to go hear what his brother has to say, but the other part is very much not in the mood to sit and listen to Ford lead a meeting of any kind, and may never be in such a mood.

"No te preocupas," he tells Santiago, hoping he's using the right form of that verb. "¡Vamos, vamos!"

Santiago takes the final barrel from him and replaces the back of his truck, but instead of heading to the driver's seat and getting in, he turns back to Stan, leans against his vehicle, and crosses his arms. "I didn't have believed it, but your Spanish has gotten worse," he comments.

"' _Wouldn't_ have believed it,'" Stan says quickly and defensively. "Your English isn't so great either."

Santiago shrugs. "Fair."

"Anyway, I've been sticking to this area. Probably won't ever venture as far south as Mexico again."

"Why is that?" Santiago asks. He doesn't sound that interested, and he's already moving towards the front of the truck, but Stan is left turning the question over in his mind. He got into his fair share of trouble both across the US border and within it back when he was a twentysomething, but for as long as he's lived in Gravity Falls, his schemes have stayed extremely local. Of course, the reason was the portal. That blasted thing seems to be the reason behind every major decision of his life. ( _Stop it. You don't regret it; you never would._ ) But now… _is_ there anything keeping him in Gravity Falls?

Ford's kicking him out of the Shack at the end of the summer, which is fast approaching. His two choices are living in his car, which is getting up there in years anyway, or settling down somewhere else. It's not even a question—he is never, _ever_ going to live without a roof over his head again. He's almost definitely squirreled away enough money to be able to afford a place big enough for one person to live comfortably. Of course, he'd like to be able to have visitors every once in a while…

And all of a sudden, his best option is obvious.

If he can't stay in the Shack, and he can't fix things with Ford, and there's nothing in this area worth sticking around for, then he wants to live close to the only thing he has left in the world.

Piedmont. He'll move to Piedmont.

He finds that he's idly trailed after Santiago and is now standing outside his driver's seat window. The guy looks kind of uncomfortable. Figuring he should probably respond to the question in some way, he starts to say, "I don't know if I should—"

And suddenly something small and fast explodes through glass somewhere behind him, but instead of puncturing the side of the car and leaving a bullet hole, it just glances off the top of the truck, setting off the car alarm and completely spooking the pugs. The ones nearest the tops of the barrels freak and scramble to escape, several of them ending up loose in the bed of the truck and just as many spilling over the side, hitting the ground, and fleeing into the trees. It's practically money running away, but Stan's not so concerned about that right now.

" _It's the cops!_ " he screams, not bothering to finish his thought, and barely even remembering what it was anyway. " _Gun_ _it!_ "

Santiago goes from zero to sixty and is out of sight in just a couple of seconds, leaving a huge cloud of dust in his wake. And in the cover of that dust, Stan dives underneath the porch, thinking only how he can't be arrested, he can't be arrested, he won't go back to jail, he won't be taken away from the kids. And even though the more he thinks about it and the longer the silence stretches on, the less likely it seems that the police have anything to do with this, he stays under that porch for a full ten minutes, fifteen, twenty, until he's so stiff that when he shifts ever so slightly his joints scream out in protest.

Finally he has to conclude that there are, in fact, no cops in the vicinity, and the local police force, in fact, has not suddenly and dramatically improved. Also that he should probably investigate what that sound actually was. He pulls himself out from under the porch, groaning with the effort, and then just lies on his front yard, gathering himself up for the process of climbing back to his feet.

He's only just managed to get upright and is in the midst of brushing himself off when Mabel comes rushing out the front door, holding Journal 1 and what appears to be a small crossbow—a troubling combination.

"Mabel!" he says, and she stops short. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going on a magical unicorn quest!" she says excitedly. "Look, I have a crossbow!"

He stares at the weapon she's holding aloft, and finds that it's a lot more concerning given the fact that he wasn't the one to give it to her. He shifts his attention to her excitement-filled face, and asks seriously, "Did Ford send you on this quest?"

Her face falls, and she drops her arm down, the tip of the crossbow clanging against the porch. "Yeah. Why?" Before he can answer, she adds, "Candy and Grenda and Wendy are coming with me. And Ford didn't say it would be dangerous."

"Then why'd he give you a crossbow?" Stan asks incredulously.

Mabel stares at the weapon, eyebrows drawn together. She shrugs. "It might come in handy?"

Stan stares down at her dubiously.

"Remember the grappling hook?" she tries.

He sighs. "What exactly is he wanting you to do?"

"Just get some unicorn hair." Her eyes are pleading. "All we have to do is hike to the magical glade and find a unicorn and ask for its hair." In a sudden motion she lowers the journal that she was holding against her chest, putting the unicorn sewn into her sweater on full display. It's clearly intentional. Her eyes grow a little bigger and more desperate, if that's even possible at this point.

Stan's not having any of it. "What's the hair for?"

"Some spell thingy to protect the Shack. It's really important." Her eyes are just as big but her voice has taken a new, graver tone.

Stan stares at her, biting his lip. He can picture the pages that talk about unicorns very clearly—it's true that Ford never wrote a thing about their being aggressive, just annoying and sometimes hard to find. He's never encountered one himself, but he can't imagine them being dangerous. And… as loathe as he is to admit it, it's clear that Ford does care about the kids' safety. So this must really matter. Stan wouldn't put it past him to send Mabel on a perilous journey, but he would honestly be shocked if Ford failed to at least describe said perils to her.

The part of his brain that conducted these rationalizations is still urging him to go inside, do some inventory on the money stashed in the walls, conduct some research on available homes in Piedmont, and figure out where he's going to be sleeping come the end of August. Mabel's safety is, of course, a more immediate priority, but he really doesn't think there's reason to believe it's in jeopardy.

"You said Wendy and your friends are going with you?" he asks finally.

Mabel nods emphatically. "Wendy, Candy, and Grenda."

He pinches the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up, and sighs. "Promise me you'll all stay together the entire time and be careful."

A wide grin spreads across his niece's face. She stands up tall and holds up two fingers. "Promise," she says, and drops the journal and crossbow to throw herself into his chest, wrapping her little arms around him as far as they can go. He picks her up, laughing, and holds her close for as long as she'll let him. Soon enough, she wants back down, and he acquiesces, and stands there watching her run off into the woods.

And he heads inside to see if he can't somewhat secure his future.

* * *

One of his many problems, as he quickly realizes, is that when people move, they are usually selling a house in addition to buying one. He has no experience with either activity, but he imagines the extra funds that would come from selling a property would be helpful in his situation.

An apartment would be cheapest, but he doesn't think he's ever going to be up for the public nature of such a living arrangement. The whole remote cabin in the woods thing has worked out very well for him. He's not about to waste his time looking for an affordable home well away from the public eye in the Piedmont area, but he'd really rather avoid an apartment.

The problem is, he's pulled out all the cash from all the hiding places he can think of, taking in account everything he has at the bank, and based on the research he's done so far, it's not nearly enough. And now he's trying to figure out where he might go looking for a job, and many of the same issues he encountered thirty years ago are still relevant now. Not to mention he's guilty of more than his fair share of misdemeanors and just about anywhere is going to have much stricter policies than Gravity Falls.

He doesn't know how long he's been counting bills, punching numbers, making calls, and searching the web, but it's starting to get dark and it's finally sinking into his thick skull that this is going to be very, very difficult to manage. Ever since he was thrown out of his childhood home he's considered himself to be a very independent person, and while he does suppose that's an accurate assessment, he's not very _good_ at being independent. Turns out he's always relied more heavily on his brother than he realized; without this house, he probably never would have managed to find somewhere to live.

Without this house, he'd probably be long dead by now, but that's not something he needs to think about.

He's in the kitchen, forcing himself to take a break from all of this for some toast and a can of Pitt Cola, when he hears a commotion the next room over—voices, and what sounds suspiciously like… a mountain of coins being dumped onto a table?

He jams a pinky into his ear and checks the tip of it for abnormal amounts of gunk, but it's pretty clean. He shakes his head in an attempt to clear it. He's not going stir crazy, is he? He supposes he's been reading a lot of numbers lately.

The voices are real though, he's pretty sure. He steps towards the door and peeks into the next room, and… and… that sure looks like a real pile of gold and jewels lying on that table.

He blinks, and rubs his eyes, but it's still there, and _holy Moses that would buy him a new house ten times over_ and he knows it's true but he can't think clearly enough to be able to verify it to himself and he's never seen so much money and suddenly his limbs are not his own and he's swooping into the room and grabbing as much of it as he can and he thinks he screams the word "money" but he can't be sure, and then he's dashing up the stairs dropping coins with every step he takes but by the time he reaches his bedroom he's still holding more than he'd ever have dreamed he could, and he dumps it on his bed and empties a box of magazines onto the floor to push every single piece of gold he can find into it. It's going with his box of contraband, it's going behind as many locks as he can muster up, it's going to be protected until he can sell it and it's going to ensure that he has a nice place close to the kids—

"Stanley?"

He spins around, and his brother is standing at his door, looking as confused as he's seen him since he returned to this dimension, and a touch concerned as well. Stan blinks at the doorknob his hand is still resting on, and realizes that in his rush he failed to lock the door behind him.

"What was that?" Ford asks, taking his first step across the threshold and into Stan's bedroom. He's never been in here before. Stan briefly considers sending him away, but that would be a bit too childish even for him.

He stares down at the box of gold on the bed before him, not really sure how to go about formulating a response. The prolonged sight of it triggers a tingle that starts at the base of his neck and spreads all the way down to his fingers and toes, and the response just spills out of him, excited and earnest: "It's a _lot_ of money."

His brother is silent for a few moments. "That was a ridiculous reaction, Stanley. Since when are you so… so… I don't even know. Since when do you _care_ so much about money?"

A sputtering laugh escapes Stan. He stands there chortling, holding his sides, and it started real, but already it's become a bit forced, an excuse to go a few seconds longer without replying. As he grows quiet again, he turns to Ford, who's standing in the same place still looking puzzled and concerned and not even a little annoyed, and Stan would normally be a bit disappointed at that, but this time he's just not feeling it. He just surveys his brother for a moment, and says softly, "You really don't know me at all, do you."

At least Ford allows for a few seconds' pause before he asserts, his tone nearly as quiet as Stan's, "On the contrary." Stan grinds his teeth but he's silent, letting him continue; this oughta be good. "Stanley," Ford continues lowly, "I know it's… been a long time since we were kids. Since the days when we were close. And that things aren't nearly as simple as they were back then. But…" He stops. Exhales. Starts again. "But I never pictured you… turning into this."

The words _What's that supposed to mean?_ dance at the tip of Stan's tongue, but he doesn't dare release them, because Ford would probably answer. Instead he just mutters, "Hey, I'm a lot better than… than I used to be."

Ford throws his arms in the air. "Then what was _that_ about?" he asks, exasperated, jerking his thumb back in the direction of the door.

Stan sets his mouth in a straight line, staring down at the gold.

"Stanley. Talk to me. You don't have to say much, just… help me understand."

"I'm trying to make sure I have a future," he blurts, and turns back to his brother, whose eyes have gone wide with surprise at the outburst. "I've spent all day trying to figure out where I'm going to go when the summer's up. It's your house, you say—I flipping know it's your house, but it's also the only thing I've ever had, and I'm trying to get myself together so I'll be ready to leave it, all right?" He's advancing on Ford now, pointing an angry, accusing finger at him, and his brother closes the door but flattens himself against it. "The only thing I've ever had, except… except the kids. This gold is going to get me to Piedmont. I don't care where it came from, I just—"

"Mabel fought a blessing of unicorns for it," Ford supplies. "She and her friends."

"Mother of pearl," Stan whispers in horror, the kid-appropriate swear slipping out of him without permission. "Is she okay?" He starts immediately for the door, a note of panic seeping into his voice as he continues, "I barely even registered that she was there, how did I not notice, what's wrong with—"

Ford places his hand on Stan's chest, effectively cutting off his words and his journey to the door. "Stan, relax! She's fine. They all are. Those unicorns are all talk."

Stan closely examines his brother's eyes, and he's definitely genuine. He wouldn't lie about this anyway. He allows himself to relax, and stumbles backwards, rubbing his hand down his face and lowering himself onto his bed.

A few moments of quiet pass, and Stan admits without looking up at his brother, "I'm a mess."

"I can see that," Ford says, chuckling, but cuts off abruptly, as if suddenly wondering if the comment was appropriate. Stan smiles into his hands. Ford mustn't see. Let him feel a little guilty.

Through his fingers he can see Ford approaching slowly, and the weight of his brother next to him brings down the mattress slightly. "Listen, Stanley," he says, "if you want to move out, I understand. This Mystery Shack business can't continue; I won't live in a tourist trap. I moved out here in the middle of the woods for a reason. But…" He pauses. "But if you want to carry on living here, I won't turn you away."

Stan's head snaps up, and he fixes his brother with a stunned stare. The words echo in his mind, and he both understands them and doesn't at once. Did he hear that right? Is it possible?

He thought he knew Ford better than this. This does not seem like something Ford would do.

"You should come back down soon," Ford says, shaking Stan out of his endless confusion. He's standing now, stepping slowly backwards to the door. Stan didn't register when he got up. "Mabel wants to tell you about her day."

Stan can only blink at his brother. His thoughts have come to a complete standstill.

Ford smiles at him, and with that, he leaves the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

Left alone, Stan spends the first ten seconds staring at the wall, and then turns to look again at the gold. It's still an extremely appealing sight, but… something's different now. A film has come over his eyes, and the principal reason is confusion.

Earlier today, he was so sure that this was what he wanted to do. Move to Piedmont, be near the kids, hopefully find employment somewhere. The idea of retirement never appealed to him anyway. And Ford could stay here with his technology and his journals and the madness of Gravity Falls that he seems to be so profoundly attracted to. He could reclaim his name and his house and never have to deal with Stan again.

Stan wraps his arms around himself almost unthinkingly, shutting his eyes tight. He has no idea what he wants anymore.

He was so comfortable in his bitterness towards his brother. He was so ready to go the rest of his life safe in the knowledge that he did everything he could, lived his entire life for Ford, and if Ford couldn't see that, it wasn't Stan's problem. He was ready to _hate_ his brother if that was what it took to get over the rejection.

As hard as he tries to tell himself that this doesn't change anything, he can't quite manage it.

Suddenly there is another option, and Stan's not sure he can handle that. Because this is now, essentially, a choice between the kids and his brother. His brother whom he chose for thirty years, whom he's missed so badly every single day since that snowy afternoon of 1982, whom he still misses even now. They've both made so many mistakes that somewhere along the road they lost sight of how to fix them. Being separated for so long certainly wasn't a help.

Is it possible that they could… fix things? Talk it out?

Be brothers again?

Stan shakes his head, telling himself it's dangerous to hope, that disappointment is always more likely, that he's just setting himself up to be let down again.

But the last time he allowed himself to act on hope, he ended up with the kids.

He's not sure yet where he'll live. But whatever he decides… he and Ford will be okay. He's been trying to reach that goal for his entire life, and he's not about to stop now.

* * *

~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~ . ~

* * *

Stan is standing in the one room representation of his mind in the midst of being consumed by sapphire flames, and he knows he's about to die. Maybe his body will still be breathing and walking and talking, but after the next minute or so, Stan Pines will be no more.

It's not like it's been in the past—when he was held at gunpoint in Chicago, when he took a wild turn on the highway and nearly drove straight into the ocean, when he accidentally started that prison riot in Elmore, when he leaped off a mountain with twin children in his arms—this time, it's a certainty, a promise. He asked for it, quite literally. It's a good thing Ford agreed when he did; an extra five seconds and Bill would have caught them pulling their respective coats on. His stubbornness would have meant the end of the world.

Stan wishes he'd had time to say goodbye.

The golden shards of demon are turning to dust before him. It was the most satisfying punch he's ever landed—solid, powerful, and in the face of the one thing that's caused his family so much heartache. The perfect end to the perfect con. A real magnum opus, and he has the three people closest to his heart here to witness it, even be a part of it.

He and Ford didn't have any time to spare outside of switching clothes and making sure they could do viable impressions of each other's voices. There were so many things he wanted to say, and it was more than obvious that the same went for Ford. Stan very nearly said some of them too—heck, he was about to put everything that comprised Stan Pines on the chopping block, and this was the last chance he'd have to do anything, _ever_ , as himself. But his family was on the line, and there was no time.

And the look that passed between them said more than simple words ever could.

Two words were spoken, though, just as Stan was about to put his second arm into Ford's trench coat: "Thank you."

He looked up, and Ford was standing there holding Stan's jacket, staring at him with the barest hint of tears shimmering in his eyes, and a warm glow filled Stan to overflowing. Because it was the most genuine he'd ever seen anybody in this world of masquerades. His gratitude was real and absolute. Ford, his nerdy brother, a man who'd spent thirty years away from home, who clearly hadn't placed his trust in a single person for at least that long, was baring his soul to him now.

Stan had never known it was possible to feel so humbled and so proud at once.

For the briefest instant he thought he wanted to keep being resentful. To keep feeling self-righteous, the uncelebrated hero. But… there was just no more time for resentment. He didn't want to spend his last few minutes hating his brother. Or even disliking his brother.

They'd both messed up. So, so badly. But it was all they could do to just try to make up for those mistakes, and considering Stan was on death row… he was ready to let bygones be bygones. It's amazing the kind of clarity impending death can afford a guy. And this time, Stan was dead set on dying. His death was going to mean something. His death was going to lead to _life_. And he was so grateful for that opportunity.

His brother would be okay.

He stepped towards Ford, and Ford stepped towards him, and their arms started to go out, but then the entire cage was shaking and the ground was trembling with the force of something huge growing nearer and nearer, and frantically they pulled on the coats they were holding, just in time for Bill to enter, clutching their niece and nephew in his colossal fist and threatening their lives.

Stan intervened not a second too soon. He was done being a screwup. No one else was going to die today, except for him.

He wonders what his body's doing right now. He's probably unconscious on the floor. He'll never be truly conscious again, he knows.

Something in the corner of his eye catches his attention, and he turns around. Sitting in a nice frame on the table behind him is his favorite picture of himself and the kids. They're all in mid-laugh, Mabel with her arms swung wide and Dipper trying to right himself after Stan's arm knocked him a bit off-balance. Waddles sits contentedly in the corner; Mabel didn't want to have the photo taken without him.

Stan takes the frame into his hands and just gazes at the picture, that same automatic smile forming on his lips that he's come to accept as a side effect to even reminding himself that the kids exist.

He's fixed it. He was given a better opportunity to keep them safe than he ever would have dared hope for, and he didn't screw it up. They're all going to be fine. And what's more, they're all going to be fine in a safe world.

"Heh," he chuckles to himself, "guess I was good for something after all."

It's the first time he's ever meant it.

And he stands still, eyes shut, peace flowing over him like he never dreamed was possible, clutching the frame as tight as he can manage, just picturing his family as the blue flames engulf the image of them and finally overcome his senses and all his thoughts, save for one.

He's doing this for them.

It's the only reason he's ever done anything.


End file.
